Self-Portrait With Cropped Hair, by Sandra Riley

Self=Portrait With Cropped Hair, by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1940

Self-Portrait With Cropped Hair

Why do I call him my Diego? He never was nor ever will be mine. He belongs to himself.
Frida Kahlo

I can smell her sex 
even if you are in the doorway.

This house is heavy with onion
but she still clings to you.

Get out, muse. Leave me here 
with the begonias on the porch.

Hands shaking, my voice 
does not betray me.

I touch the stiff tips of my brushes 
but there is no color for this.

I look at my hands on my thighs. 
Looking to the doorway I find you gone.

I loosen the braid taming my hair.
I stand at the mirror. You loved 

my hair, always smoothing it over,
burying your nose in the inky strands.

I take the heavy scissors out of the drawer.
There is no color for this.

It’s not easy to cut, this hair.
I let it collect in the sink, 

a bird’s nest without a bird.

Sandra Riley

Sandra Riley is a community college writing instructor. She holds degrees from Ohio State University, Antioch University Midwest, and The University of Dayton. Her poetry has appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry, Poets Online, and Mock Turtle Zine. ​