Grit teeth, pushed pain to canvas
And willed her child: Art.
Brush strokes slice like blade
Deep crevices in glass.
Deep cruelty in those details
This dew, that blade of grass.
Split fruit, spilled seed.
Excruciating--
The beauty for the taking
She need only to stand.
Extend the arm, clench brush in hand
Describe precisely the breaking
From in those
Places where steel splintered spaces
Between life and limb.
Split fruit, spilled seed.
An abundance of need
on this earth-- bound to nurture
Diego's naked vision.
So, Frida works the politics--
The global, the local, the
interfuckingpersonal.
Her religion?
Madre Mía,
She must have always known
Your arms were there to hold her
Ah sí she can let go!
She'll not now need these thorns.
Frida-- grown-- transcendent.
She is clay
leaf
breath
then sky.
No comments:
Post a Comment