Mothers of X-Men
The Gallery is dim because the light all comes
from inside birds holding space in their feet.
A plover is smeared on the south wall ululating
and illuminating the title, Mothers of X-Men,
but the painting is lit by five
nightjars discharging petite spotted beams.
Mother Three, the only one seated
and breastless, is cockeyed like the Spanish
artist carrying syphilis for a goddess
with a disheveled basket
face. Before the opposite wall, two bald eagles
hover and smooch their cloacas together
and a glow leaks out from between them onto some
encaustic reproduction of the American flag.
In the middle of the room, pigeons drop
light on Romanian bronzes, smeared like the plover
but up. Nothing else in here is famous modern art.
The piece adjacent to the flag is a French
feminist defending Les Demoiselles D'avignon.
He’s sitting at a desk papered with VD
pamphlets writing by light from a scowling owl.
The same team of artists made the President.