Seven Reasons Why Frida Kahlo Is Alive And Well In Taos
- Open tap: Eske’s Pub: Diego lifts
a microbrew, dreaming a mural of you, amber
and naked, with nine strong communists. - Three porcelain dollies from Dallas try on your cape
of midnight at a little shop, all the while watching
out for the evil monkey you lost in 1946. - Meanwhile, the child you would never have
miracle-dances in a courtyard right of the Plaza,
her gypsy’s skirt sewn with ribbons and veins. - Pain of the iron rod weeps at the infants’
headstones
(back of the camposanto). Its tears grow tomatillos--
green like your loneliness - Or coral, lining the robe of la Virgen in the tiny church
of two altars. Braids piled about her head are a volcano,
spewing your mysterious tint of coyoacán blue. - Soft road shoulder near San Cristobal, and the biker
who resembles Dennis Hopper invites you to swing
your leg over; fire-glow near the wheels means climb on. - Looking back, the vanishing horizon beneath
the forehead of Taos Mountain is your eyebrow:
a single dark sunset.
(Heartlodge: Honoring the House of the Poet, 2005)
