Frida

Little girl,

it is the middle

of a Mexican July

and you are wearing a suit

grey against spicy pink

geraniums, carpets

of golden poppy.

You don’t know it yet

but you’ll be hit

by a bus -

literally.

You’ll have nails

in your skins –

metaphorically-

paint pain

in pastel colors

of birthing blood,

fermented dreams,

distended beauty.

With your broken column,

cracked mortar and brick

you’ll tango

with actresses,

go point for point

with politicians,

scare legends, lose

innocence to a handrail,

five toes to gangrene

have an affair

with your husband’s lover

fuck a communist-

never as good as the cabaret singer.

For now,

stand handsome

beside Grandfather

hair back,

legs spread,

chest out.