It’s a starburst
In my eyes –
the Frida poem?
Frida?
The one with the haunted face
thick eyebrows like little brushes
kissing?
Who paints loves shouts?
Craves colour, song, movement?
The one confined held constrained
inside that iron straitjacket
where agony sings its off–key notes?
Chipped and broken bones
pitch soprano
nerves moan alto
and those flamenco dancers
purple orange scarlet yellow step up
move dance stride sing across canvas
for that strong woman…
that Frida?
Then I see its not a Frida poem
Its a Friday poem
Sometimes wavery vision sees clearly
what is needed and what is needed
is a slamming of the door in pain’s face
a hand held up, palm out
You have my body
You do not, you do not, have me
You do not have me
You do not have me
Renée