Her mouth opens, tight bow unraveling
and I see gold coins pouring between her teeth –
noisy offering that clangs and bounces off the peeled linoleum of my kitchen floor.
I watch them spin on thin-edged devotion,
skid to a halt at my feet.
I am ritual starved –
the ram in the temple.
Madonna eyes are following my every move.
They’re willing me to fold,
bend down and confess
as fingers scrabble for all the pieces,
umbilical cord phrases,
that make my stomachache
and my lips disappear against my teeth.
I melt back,
compel my genes to surrender,
kneel before the queen,
imitate the devout fetish that ministry has bludgeoned into my little orphan skull.
Her mouth closes,
and I will it open.
I will the words to bulldoze out between her teeth.
I will the light to glimmer across every golden turn of phrase
so I can stuff them in my pockets,
bury them in my uterine wall,
give birth to a surrogate god
who will light me up like a nuclear bomb…
who will sacrifice me before her eyes
and make me a martyr worthy.
© Laura A. Lord, 2020