Madonna

What kind of Madonna are you? Your silk is flesh, your green slippers are lily pads for the daughter of Venus. What if I laid my head upon your lap would you mother me, or caress dormant passions into flame? In Spain and Italy they march you through the narrow, cobbled streets. bound to a pole and banners as if you were a totem, a painted and caged icon of their masculine salvation. Will you save me my gypsy Madonna, or will I rescue you? I will take you upon a starry night, to ride within a rolling caravan. Heaven will wait for us, as we, ravaged by body-prayers, dawdle upon the way. Shall we then be riddled through by the threads of each other's needs, this our hungering impulse to be both the seed and the flowering?