April 2013

Frida Kahlo

On a hill near red-clay roads,
     I laugh and tell time by looking at the sky:
          It is cobalt, it is black, it rains. Frida tells
     Diego of a dream that tells her of a nothing
She paints and always feels. “Yes, Frida,”
Says Diego, “All things are life, all things
     Are ebullient, and bare, life is austere,
          Effulgent; it is beautiful, a blank void.”
She wants to tell him, but cannot, of what
     She thinks, of what she felt when she
          Saw a mouse whisked away by an owl
     With great wings, illuminated by light
From the earth below. She wants to think of love,
Of what she knows and cannot say:
     That the red clay of the road she is on is
          Barren; that she feels the royal blue, the
Purple, the black of the night sky in a
Deep and concave place inside her; that she
     Is haunted by the beauty of the dead
          Horses she saw in the grass of the fields;
     That she remembers the time she sat atop a sand dune
At a beach in la Isla del Padre, her shorts
     At her ankles, missing Diego, mesmerized
          By the blue and greyish gold of the gloaming
     Sky, the crescent moon, and the evening star.

—Samuel Arizpe

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