Madonna

I cradle him to my chest

My baby

His body

Stare straight through the angel

Who told me this would be a blessing

Between my legs, there is now a wound

While she sits upon a seven-headed beast

Her silks and its skins stained with His scarlet

I, the mother of the savior

Draped in the black of my mourning

She, the mother of harlots

Drunken with the blood of the saints

The waters where she sits: multitudes, tongues

The waters where I sit: mine, broken

For Him, the cup of wrath

For the world, the cup of salvation

In her hand, the cup of fornication

Mine the cup – no, the manger

From which He first reached to hold my hand

Empty

“Whore,” I whisper to her

“So, I am the whore, but the kings I reign over are not?” she answers

She, I

I, she

The abomination is my reflection