My Madonna stands ten feet tall. She has a certain swing in her hips, wry smile on her lips.
I can tell she knows something. But I don’t let on. I prefer to watch her go about her day, arranging flowers on the table, setting the vase this or that way.
My Madonna is no prude, she makes risqué jokes and sunbathes in the nude.
I want to tell her something, but I can’t find the words to speak,
So, I let her go on talking, maybe I’ll let her know – maybe I’m too weak.
My Madonna loves dancing, she takes me to wild soirees, we dance with many people,
We always end up parting ways. People like to watch her dancing, there is power in her sway.
I bite my tongue and avert my eyes, I’ll see her the next day.
My Madonna sometimes cries, she conceals red eyes with misplaced humour and a weak smile, I comfort her holding her in my arms, she holds me close, disappearing into sobs.
She whispers secrets in my ears, about her lovers and her sadness, I suppose I’m her mere–
My Madonna looks at me with stern eyes when I tell her. She is upset, curses, this is always happening to her.
I try to take it back, but she says she always knew it, she calls me “twisted and sick.”
I don’t see her after that.
My Madonna is not my Madonna, she isn’t anyone’s to keep. She’s a person, not a deity. This, I am embarrassed to say, I didn’t see.
I regret my confession. All she wanted was a friend in me.
I sometimes think of not-Madonna when I sit by the water, where we used to bathe in the sun.
I think of what I words I would say to her now.
I look off into the cotton candy water and ponder.
Still, I think of none.