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?
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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