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

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

if Madonna could lie still in my bed arms spread even as a picnic neck smooth as a jar not rented for once but spent dark and sweet open all night fruited and honeyed(even free) how would I move that I hadn't before? what crimes would wait in my body hands tongue loose sheets or rope waiting to pull hair from her head to bind her feet or wash them in wine... How ordinary to imagine such revenge how common my dust and yet how sweet

ã Elizabeth Terry  5/3/99