John Grey writes

THE MASKED MADONNA

She wore her kitchen over her eyes, 

armed herself with utensils,
while a hide of speckled pots and pans
guarded one flank
and a flaming brown and red casserole the other.

Her fuel was coffee
and the radio stations that played their rooster crows
just before dawn,
fluttered like leaves across the talk show twilight.
She held the cup tight to strengthen her wrists
and indulged the cat with faint turns of the palm of her hand
to recharge her sensitivity on the very off chance it was needed.

She sliced garlic to fend off vampires,
avocado, colander and tomatoes for everyone else.
And her fingers slipped into rubber gloves
like they were ten long-trusted condoms.

She'd don the bathroom from time to time,
the parlor when her feet had had enough of Spanish tile
but every time she strapped the bedroom to her face
that mask fell away too quickly
for her to settle down, enjoy the look of sheets and blankets,
that delicate tissue paper nakedness.

She kept reverting to kitchen for a look
that gave out warmth and comfort.
It worked on others.
It did wonders for herself.
She called herself the masked Madonna.
She never did learn her true identity.

Masked Madonna -- Jude Harzer