She sits on her knees for us,
in a big room where everyone
in the audience has a pair of scissors,
and permits us to snip away her
clothes.

One-by-one we strip
her layer-by-layer.
Anticipating her to turn
suddenly afraid.
Eventually to plead. We want
 that
of her.

Our sick American aesthetics
tell us that she is the death
 of rock and roll,
of the blue eyed man
 in the round glasses.
She did not
 take his bullet after all. We remember.

Now she is a shadow-wife.
Mother
 to an all American boy,
practically
 a Kennedy but less politicized.

We want to strip her down to her yellow-
to the one truly discernable difference.
We want to show her she is not at home.
And she will let us.
Perfectly passive.
It drives us mad.
In a big room
each takes his piece of her.

But she never disappears.
No matter how deeply we cut.
And she never cries, either.