Coven Ciccone

Louise enters the Late Night studio balanced on the crossed sticks of a team of hockey players. She has to duck her blond head when they carry her in through the doorway. She looks wary as the little procession carefully makes its way down the stairs to the stage. Letterman lurches towards her like a golem, gives her the talk show embrace. Rubs her back, holds on a little too long. Louise folds herself into the easy chair beside the desk, fidgeting inside her plain black dress. The studio audience is going berserk, ecstatic to find themselves in the presence of royalty, and right here in America! Suddenly she twitches, her eyes go glassy, then she is back to normal, flirting to make Dave blush. Letterman looks sour and haunted. Louise’s skin is stretched taut across her skull, her hair stringy and yellow. In a village on the other side of the world, a specter rises from the cracked earth, stretches a bony hand toward a fly-encrusted baby. The specter brushes away her white habit so she can see better. Her eyes are black, black. Back in the studio, Dave is spluttering and bantering like an awkward teenager. His boner is hidden beneath his desk. Louise stares vapidly out at the rows of acolytes. She licks her chapped lips, imagining the studio in flames. Her best years are decades gone, yet the mob still chants her name. Her mind goes to the desert and she sees the old woman take the baby, pulling it into her robes, cradling it in a nest of bones. The baby starts to cry and the woman stuffs her withered teat between its black lips. The woman’s breath is hot, her skin papery. She makes the sign of the cross and leaves the village, her bare toes scratching claw prints in the dust. The Madonna smiles, her mouth a wide red gash. She sits up straighter, adjusts her dress, places a hand on Letterman’s sleeve. Her skin glows, her crow’s feet have disappeared like tracks in soft sand. Her hair shines like gold. Dave bows his head. The audience screams.