frida kahlo once wrote
in a letter to diego rivera,
"i am left knowing that I love you
more than my own skin.
and though you may not love me as much,
you do love me a little, don't you?
if this is not true, i will always be hopeful that it could be."
my cracked marble pythoness
felt her agonies as a fire in her belly
stoked by infidelity and acid rain tragedy
carried her canvases on broken back and sagging shoulders
to each clandestine corner of her hollow chest
spent years searing masterpieces onto the back of her hands--
she was her own greatest work.
loved and misused by a man who was no sooner monogamous
than he was of godlike sentiment
larger than olympus, withered under her calloused palms
she did not get to feel his remorse soak through her aching bones
i do not think she would have wanted to;
frida was too ferocious a woman to let the fumbling speech of a guilty man
force her hand to forgiveness.
diego's final remark after frida's passing was,
"july 13, 1954 was the most tragic day of my life.
i had lost my beloved frida forever.
too late now i realized that
the most wonderful part of my life
had been my love