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