Cadillac Cross
they were held up, two handfuls
of ripe fruit, an offering to the camera flash.
and you seemed only a child, forced
into the skin of a woman, the world
was watching you laugh, but no one would
ever know why.
the private conch you kept
offered for love or lust or heat,
now a deer in the headlights.
now cast out like round die
now handled until grimy
now silent
now hard.
I cannot imagine your
pain, how nothing is safe;
we made a pillar of you, a statue at a temple, rusted roadside attraction,
thousands of rubber bands in a ball, a house of crushed coffee cans,
the longest loudest brightest ball of flame
that side of the red carpet,
and then there was a sound
like a wet rag
falling limp and ****** onto the floor;
how will the decade treat your eyes?
will we find you in the forest
with a cadillac cross on your chest?
or bleeding in a hotel
with your publicists’ card twisted
between clean fingernails?
or scotch taped
with a tapestry backdrop
hostage with cameras wide-opened at your head?
the audience notes the strings of saliva that stretch
blindly from one full lip to the next
like the string of a bow pulled taut
and then lost in wild degradation,
broadcast.
how will the decade treat your eyes?
will there be bags where we do not want them?
packed with sag and soft nights,
will we find you in the forest
with a Cadillac cross
on your
chest?