Frida Kahlo and Me
my sister Frida your bed is my bed and your paintings wash over me the veins of
vines envelop your paintings the reds of the pigments speak to pain you and I are bound
by this pain and no one can pronounce it valid or in-valid you are the body on the
page of history I am the body on the altar of my life chronic problems getting out of
bed? Taking a shower? Going to the grocery? Reaching for a dish off the kitchen shelf?
be a Frida lie in you bed paint your world switch to the couch read on your tiny
altar am I lamb to be slaughtered or fattened in pain for a future meal of the universe?
my sister Frida no one likes a malingerer did you know that? did you fit their
stereotype of the sick one? or were you too vocal to insistant on having the reds
on the page? you had a mustache you were an androgynous figure in that bed
except you painted your breasts with nails riddling your flesh pain a crucifixion to bad taste
I paint too Frida but my pictures are peaceful scenes of warm blues and comforting
greens the sea is my favorite place its tide promising to take away all debris once I
painted a fibromyalgia fog and scared myself into amnesia my brush now paints little
flowers indolent with colours avoiding red or the lightning flash of firing neurons my
This poem was previously published in Diane Driedger's Red with Living: Poems and Art (Inanna, 2016).
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