hurricane drain

The hurricane shape of the drain
shows silver spirals suck away the boiling water
From my scalded pink skin, fresh from the womb
Every pore gasping for air
as the cloak of liquid recedes.

In direct contrast, the ice glass
I grip with my sturdy right hand
Levitates, tips and shakes
Its dirty contents down the pebble bridge of my tongue
To inject my slimy organs
with soiled poisons.

Red branches grow from drunken eyes,
As I watch the silver hurricane
in my bathtub drain.
Its spiral dwindles, leaving swampy porcelain
And sticky pink eraser skin
And a head of cinderblocks
And white noise vision.

In direct contrast, the ice glass
slips from my sturdy right hand
And shatters blades across the floor.