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Adrian Blevins
Still Life with Peeved Madonna
It’s clear I’m standing on the Isle of Motherdom
given these three children hanging off my arms and feet
weighing the weight of the planet, at least.
The children look like dime-store bric-a-brac
since all that swings will squarely star-sparkle,
but more like missiles in size and expulsion intent.
They’re asking how cold is the water, to which I say I don’t know.
They’re asking could they have some macaroni & cheese
to which I say I’m occupied hating this line, hush, now hush.
They’re asking how far is it inland & do the natives dance there
& can they go & get some confetti & snort or inject it
to which I say years ago I could answer your questions
but look at those clouds, I think that’s a cyclone
to which they say, fuck you, Mom, you’re always so paranoid
to which I say, fuck you, too, you remind me of lizards,
were you birthed in an outhouse by an ogre or a loon?