A star burst in my eyes?
The Frida Poem?
Frida?
That one with the haunted face?
Eyebrows like little brushes kissing?
That Frida?
Who painted loved shouted endured
craved movement – colour – that Frida?
confined inside that iron straitjacket
where the choir of chipped and broken bones
sang Glory Glory Glory
as purple scarlet yellow red stepped up
moved danced strode sang from her hands
as she painted the world.
That Frida?
Then I see, dammit, dammit, its not a Frida poem at all
Its a Friday poem.
I stare – maybe sometimes
what we see is what we want to see
and at this moment what I want to see
is not a Friday poem
but a Frida poem
blazing with fire
shouting to the world
opening itself to the moon
flaring back at the sun…
I hear her laughter…
Renée
