Poem: Who's telling Madonna by Elisabeth Horan

Who's telling Madonna 

By Elisabeth Horan
@ehoranpoet
QuailBellMagazine.com

Who’s telling Madonna
she's too old for a thong?

Who's telling me
I'm too old for babies?

We are never free from the curtain
of expectations -
the size enumerations.
​

They do it to us -
we do it to each other.

Who told Amy she's a plus size package?
Her breasts, her cheeks, her arms...

And who cares anyway - she's so beautiful -
but funny isn’t enough
she has to be pretty too
for the men.
For THEM!
But is “them” the men, or is it us?

Us, masquerading as men.
Our Mardi Gras masks
of minerals and
nylon leg shanks
hiding us - the bearded ladies
behind unshaven bushes -

Us, running from the water cannons;
the ruff-ruff ruffies,
the rubber bullets,
the rubbered dicks.

Our bras littering the rioted streets.

Mothers arm wrestle over who's more organic;
who follows the recalls on fb
who is the least crazy - there is always the crazy one.
In my town, its me.

So they avoid me.
The libraries, the playdates - not my milieu
I hide at home, uninvited -
Yet even the sane ones are too wary of each others’
daggers to be supportive -

So they stand at a distance, facing the Herr;
saluting La Leche,
afraid of their wares -

Like their milk and the midwives
with their salt and pepper fare, the
overeager dulas - glancing sideways at each other
their spiky haircuts - unfettered, with
highlights on high alert - scanning the chatter
for any maternal dirt, that could be used

On the soccer field, standing divided:
deep in an ethnic cleansing - of

the Stay-at-Homes
vs
the Standing-Alones

Instead of drinking wine together.

I remember Cher’s butt in Elvira’s veil of vellum.
Her rounded orbs like Amy’s apple cheeks
and its crescent lips hollering:
 
Hey world - look at me!
I give not two shits what you think -

But her butt wouldn't have said that
if it had been a size 14 - like mine, for
big asses do not talk to the world
but stay shy and hidden in the comfort waistbands
of their Lee Riders -

Showing themselves to their children,
perhaps to their husbands;
stealing a glimpse in the mirror,
scowling at the cellulite -

I suppose butt cheeks with voices
are reserved for the yoga athletes

like Madge
like Cher.

But then people say they're too old and when
a little voice in my head said it too -
I told it to shut
the
&%$#
up.

Black thongs are not my option - but
standing on the soccer field is;

Alone and afraid of the other
bitches on the sidelines.

Cheering their sons on -
Measuring their success as mothers in goals;

Striding about like highfalutin despots -
the next Kim-Jong or Imelda - 

In their flattering Lee Riders.