Marilyn
Marilyn in a blind panic,
her breasts as monuments
her hands tied to the forceps,
of a long labor of pretending,
wondering what she might be
on those bloodless afternoons
when love was not enough to bind
the strings of childhood abandonment
with her genetic fleetness to believe,
that all she needed was a president,
an author, a hitman or companion
that saw through her pout,
her cotton hair, her childlike wisp
of forceful beauty
into the awful truth of how alone
in the crowd she felt,
always on cue but cuddling
those bloodless afternoons
when no one came
except colors in capsules
except sleep with a striking stick
through the land of bad dreams.