Frida Kahlo's Pain, #2

The pain relies on me.
A gnarled hand
squeezes my bones, my tentative breaths.
I live with this thief
who robs me of everything, who sits
on my soul.

Ordinary suffering is what lies on the bed.
Inside me, it's miraculous and terrible.
I am wed to it.
I wait and wait as betrayal rises like smoke,
wait until I can paint my broken life.

What can you see?
Can you make a meal of the looking?
Can you swallow it?
I am leaving you my secrets.
You can mourn or dance, look
at my face or look away.

Drinking wind

Gulping like a madwoman, don't you know,
never enough, never enough.
Is this a suicide attempt,
or just a dream of wings
breaking into consciousness?

The wary birds pass by.
It's the open mouth that ruffles
their feathers. Too much responsibility.
Neither hunger or thirst,
no grim apocalypse, this inhalation
of all gusting air, the blue
and grey and empty colors.
The invisible blade, what a dim
account of weather.

The day moon is a liar,
false white coin as if belonging.
Such a sound swallowed,
such risk. Departures
and arrivals, the wicked
let the wind lift the hair from the neck,
let it take away hats
and important papers.
Let it fill them up while the deaf children
move toward the trees, smiling.

Counted

Whatever system of measurement
determines compassion, it is shy
of the mark. The birds will be hungry
again and again, the terrible rains
of November will find the bones,
cold and uncovered, will wash them
until they gleam like rogue stars
in the city's black alleys.

^

Biography

I've been publishing poetry for thirty years in such journals as Poetry, Rhino, Fine Madness, Nimrod, Hawaii Pacific Review, Crab Creek Review and others. I've also published fiction, and stories and poems for children. Among awards I've received are those from the Seattle Arts Commission & Artist Trust. Originally from Pittsburgh, PA, I've lived in Seattle for twenty-five years.