 The Two Fridas, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico). 1939. The Two Fridas My younger self inquires why my older self is a raw rose, a fool. I claw at my heart, strap it on my dress -- a red hole that opens & closes without bleeding.  The Wounded Deer, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1946. The Wounded Deer I’ve stalked my own heart with compulsive arrows. I will never return to how I was before. I grasp my self-hatred like sagging plums, unable to extend my fingers.  Moses, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1945 Moses We’re one moving organism that began with a lone sperm & an egg, its yolk shining in utero, the bright morning jelly star.  Henry Ford Hospital (The Flying Bed), by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1932 The Flying Bed At once I birth lobsters & snails, orchids so violet their petals burn my wrists. Stones & snails drop through my hips. After pools of blood spill, the fetus floats in a jar, waters around it congealing to wax.  The Suicide of Dorothy Hale, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1938 The Suicide of Dorothy Hale If you won’t marry me, I’ll wed death, step off a balcony at noon. My skin will descend & alter to milk on the sidewalk. All other traces of me will evaporate, back to the sky from which I descended.  My Grandparents and Me, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1936 My Grandparents, My Parents and Me My mother paced the halls with needles & spoons like a parrot trying to merge into wallpaper. Her leather skin teased but never touched me. The starched & laced collar of her dress squeezed her neck until she collapsed.  The Bus, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1929 The Bus We travel to a market brimming with melons, pelicans & bouquets of white lilies. A housewife nurses her basket, fingering rows of just-hatched eggs. A boy stares out the window, knees burning the long bench.  The Dream, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1929 The Dream (The Bed) Death is dancing around my bed all night long. Vines on my coverlet advance. Skeletons snooze on the canopy. My pillows contemplate shadows nibbling on corners.  The Broken Column, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1944 The Broken Column I’m a martyr to Diego’s infidelities, dancing on my back like tacks. My spine is blown to smithereens, vertebrae smashing bone against bone Burned, buried, aureate stones crumble like chalk.  Without Hope, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1945 Without Hope Don’t be shocked by the horror of my insides fragmented on the canvas like pumpkin pulp. I can only count on one thing, a candy skull perfect & white, snickering over my bed.  Memory, the Heart, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1937 Memory, the Heart My organ has become so large, it’s bigger than my abdomen. The dress in which you ravaged me is sleeveless. I’m wading in water with a damaged foot & no arms.  Girl With Death Mask, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1938 Girl with Death Mask They say I look like a doll, arms, legs & torso in miniature with a honeyed voice. I’m dizzy from the same song. I wear masks to the fiesta – calacas & tigres -- How could they be frightened by someone as small as I?  My Dress Hangs There, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1933 My Dress Hangs There America, I don’t worship your bourgeois toilets, telephones, skyscrapers, or feathered monstrosities purchased from a Fifth Avenue habadashery. Across the Hudson smokestacks & water towers waddle on spindly, metal legs. Crucifixes are wrapped in freshly printed greenbacks.  Portrait of Cristina, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1928 Portrait of Cristina My Sister Your skin is churned butter. When my organs shriveled into strips of poblano peppers, their seeds rattled in their cases. You opened your legs to Diego, his cock poking your languid skirts as casually as turning on a faucet. You’re a jagged leaf disguised as a flower.  Roots, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1943 Roots Because I cannot wean a child, I birth vines that originate from atria, ventricles & semilunar valves. My blood circulates, flowing to parched earth.  Frida in Coyoacan, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1943 In Coyoacan In the Jardin Centenario coyotes guzzle from fountains. Laurel trees sway their hips. Vendors at Plaza Hidalgo proffer sopes, quesadillas y los mas ricas helados. I pace the streets, heels clicking between each cobblestone, cloc, cloc, cloc, as carriages thunder by.  Self Portrait with Monkeys, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1943 Self-Portrait with Monkeys Four seasons, four corners of table & bed. My four monkeys, your black fur brushes the nape of my neck. I feed you bits of mango & banana and you squeal among the leaves. “Los Fridos,” you are my four apprentices, four apertures to the world.  Self Portrait with Cropped Hair, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1940 Self Portrait with Cropped Hair You loved me for my black thicket, horse’s mane, rope-coiled, luxury-long siren’s song. I’ve lobbed it off, seaweed-strong, with shears. You won’t see me anymore.  My Nurse and I, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1937 My Nurse and I I was like a calf at a dairy farm sucking milk in mechanical release – drip & suck, drip & suck. Mother nursed my sister but had no love left for me. I do not recall her face, for it was a pre-Colombian mask -- features without feeling, eyes without souls. With one hand she weld me to her massive breast. With the other, a bottle of tequila.  The Wounded Table, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1940 The Wounded Table
What a feast of my last hours. Every dimension of me devours chilles rellenos, guacamole and mole poblano. At the table: Wounded Me, always inviting arrows to enter; Androgynous Me, jaw sharpened like a man’s; Martyr Me, Christ and high priestess; Nude Me, Mexican Venus; Elegant, Colonial Me, eyeing my subjects surreptitiously; Third-eye Me, for the mirage that opens its doors; Diego, for I am he & he is me; Earth Goddess Me, because my art is all of me; The Lord Herself, who presides over Earth & melts into Sun and Moon, mesmerizing me. Susan Michele Coronel Susan Michele Coronel graduated with a B.A. in English from Indiana University-Bloomington and an M.S. Ed. in Applied Linguistics/Teaching English as a Second Language from Queens College (CUNY). She is a lifelong lover of poetry, and has studied with Yusef Komunyakaa, Tina Chang, Joanna Fuhrman and Annie Finch. Her poem "British Rhapsody" was published in issue #7 of Newtown Literary Journal. She has worked as a journalist and blogger, and as an elementary and ESL teacher. Since 2004 she has lived in Ridgewood, Queens, where she owns and directs a preschool/daycare program.
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The Ekphrastic Review
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January 2021
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