Mar 5, 2013

Self-Portrait as Frida Kahlo

Written by Shelley Wong

Read by Christopher Eaton

He goes to her. He goes and so does my hair
the way he likes it. It falls, feather-like, arrow-

ready at my feet. They call me a bird,
but I rust: a dropped key, forgotten

scissors. I make my own forest and coax
thorns, moths, and metal to swarm in my hairnest.

The sky is a door in a sky. I wait
for messages sent by suspended ribbons,

which are the arteries of devotion.
Here are my monkeys and bears, here is

my new face. I go deeper into the trees
when he runs to her. My mouth is full

of watermelon. Its sweetness gone out
like a veladora. I am the horse that runs.