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 lay 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.