the martyrdom of St. Madonna on her rocks

your mother once told you
“ beauty is pain”
before she combed your tangled hair
and suddenly you wanted
to be a ballerina when you grew up

so now
you will tilt your long white throat
at an audience
like an antelope taunting the lions
blood in your pointe shoes
pink silk stained

your first dance recital
your mother combed your tangled hair
and then ironically knotted it
at the back of your head
you protested only a little
afterwards she said
“ beauty is pain”
to comfort you

you will train your heels
never again to touch the ground
you pirouette,
fold yourself
into an origami figure:
an antelope on slender legs

and you will let the lions have your neck
because pain is beauty
blood in your pointe shoes
pink silk stained
because pain is beauty

this is how you will achieve sainthood—

raise your eyes
and lift your arms to heaven
because you are not of this earth