Thinking about Frida Kahlo

This poem is as much personal as it is about my impressions of the fabulous Frida Kahlo.

Thinking about Frida Kahlo

She is never complete,

depleting those velvet dresses

with sterile lubricants.


I read between the lines

of her severed face,

see how that virile column

holds together her broken self,

how still life becomes her.


Behind erotica’s plumage

the internal plumbing is enough

to make any stomach sink

to the pit of itself.


Her ovum inflates

as it hatches into iconism,

all it takes is a few nips and tucks

in a bunk bed she shares with death.


Lust is suspended

inside her incisive frame.


She prefers pain,

wearing blood beads about her neck

and stern baubles in her ears,

she cries glycerol tears.


She defers pain

even as it is nailed

tactfully into her split self.

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