Madonna's Next Performance:
What if she walked barefoot
into my dust walked
step by dirty step
her toughened heel skin
crushing snail shells
smashing vipers rough
ankles peeling puddles
dog shit sidewalk moss
broken glass and
slices of cement
walked no crawled
into my cape (or cave)
ready for scaly knees
bruised thighs torn
palms nailed to night
not soft this room
or robe) but
cluttered clutched
rust-stained toilet
keyboard waxy
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pillow cases
quilted rags red
and quartered
if I could put her back
where she belongs)
carry her clothes to the fire
untangle her streetlit hair
spread her breasts and cheeks
slide under her bones and swim
up her spine she wouldn't have to
sing or dance or pose
(not the usual kind of recitation anyway)
not a pop song or love song
not even an off-key lullaby
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