Frida
A poem
When I see a mesh tote
or screen print tee
with her face on it
I wonder what she would say
about being made into
a product
in someone else’s hands,
her side-eye daring you
to endure like she did,
for $29.95 plus tax
When you go to her parents’ house
billowing bougainvilleas dangle overhead,
their magenta petals camouflaging thorns
which you learn by getting pricked
How much of her life she passed
trapped in body lit with pain
yet a wheelchair faces a canvas,
the easel specially made for painting in bed
One June Saturday, I wandered alone
into the Modern Art Museum
marveling at it all,
letting the artists whisper to me
my pen in hand
I turned, not knowing
and Las Dos Fridas was upon me:
her two hearts painted red and open,
the insides outside,
distinct in their anatomies,
daring and exposed and centered,
anchoring the figuration:
Arteries bind her like vines,
she holds the scissors
with which she has cut herself,
blood sputters forth
like nothing,
like the red flowers
embroidered on her dress
It was a season of absence
that birthed this masterpiece
One heart, one Frida was not enough
She has been bled dry
or she has nothing left
to hide
I understand her now
these years later
Of two hearts,
Of two minds
She says to me,
Take your own hand
as I have taken mine
