What Frida Would Do
Bird of paradise flowers
flaunt orange crowns and fanned leaves,
compete with sunset’s purple streak.
The courtyard walls are cobalt.
Colorful dishes, yellow walls,
sponge up light.
Frog mosaic fountains plashes its flute song.
Her opinions bold as her big coral necklace.
Hair blooming dahlias.
Frida! Summons saints, gods, brass band
to deliver stars. Pink salt and lime in drink,
chili dusting tortilla, hot chocolate with cinnamon.
Perhaps, like the rest of us, she falters sometimes,
wonders whether to hold your hand or not,
but does it anyway, untwists mezcal,
unbinds your hair. Cactus brewed fifty years,
spicier than garlic under nails. She spins,
though it causes her pain, one leg smaller with polio.
Her traditional skirt is a rainbow in a waterfall.
Fingers flash fish-silver.
Husky crushed clove voice. She lets you close enough to her
to hear her heart: rápido as hummingbird wings.