Madonna

"I'm gone make
a thousand dollar tomorrow,"
she coos as she rises donning bridal lingerie;
"I jus gotta
pass the bottle
sans Fourier," she adds closed fist
stabbing her pelvis.

She's prone
with one leg raised
writhes on a blanket
folding the corner inwards
then bites
the erect penis formed. Long scar on the inside of her
thigh disappears into her delta.

I turn and glance
at a picture of a
bare breasted woman hung behind
a gambol machine.

She's 21
been dancing for 6
a mother for four, rhythm of
the stage makes her smile a blond shadow
dance with mirrors
followed by leering men
on a perfume trail.

I watch her:
spread eaglet spasms
hear vignettes
from between her thighs: the man her father beat to death,
the loose bone in her
nose one punch from piercing her brain,
a daughter left
to grand-mama
and days of rocking
her child to the beat
of her nights; and Sundays she's followed
around town by children
for whom ice creams are bought
and who call her Madonna.

Sherri Rapp
Montreal, Quebec