To Frida Kahlo
Born with psyche-umbilical tied
to an Aztec stone goddess giving birth,
you became ivory skinned and black haired
in Tehuana dress,
you rose from a regal senorita
with wet eyes, stars in dark orbits,
under brows arched together
like albatross wings gliding the sea,
into a blood-saint impaled on a steel cross,
hanging nailed and strapped
to a broken column.
The death of your sons seared in you
a black hole dragging time inside your pain,
binding you with the uncut funis of miscarriages,
but your core of brilliance, like a laser,
carried you to the blue house
on the other side.
Your paintings hold you,
giving birth to immortal suns,
giving us controlled explosions of sight.
You wrap us in color.
Copyright 1998, John L. Platt
John Platt is an award-winning
poet who has been writing for 50 years. He studied verse writing
for four years under Theodore Roethke at the University of Washington.
He teaches a poetry class at the Northshore Senior Center in Bothell, Washington,
and is currently a member of the Seattle Live Poets Society.
Thematic Contents / Vol. 3, No. 2
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