Clean Like My Bones

Golden Madonna waits by the links in the shade.
Tea time was at 3pm, and dusk is falling late.
And golden Madonna stands there still 
and waiting.
How long has she had to wait?
How many hours of yearning will fill the vase?
The viscous liquid laps at my lips. 
I drink it all but it always fills again.

The wind tore at me
when she looked at me. 
That seeping desire
to be always at the height of my powers.
Like a snake always devours.
And time and time again,
what else am I only left 
but the blood on my lips.

But her –
she was immune to snake venom,
going up and down the driveway 
counting the anthills and plotting 
their wars, romance, and infamies.
And in the ant pews, the clergy
looked up praying to a tawny Madonna.