Poetry

The Ghost of Frida Kahlo

The walls converge upon her self-portrait –

From the emptiness she stares with broken eyes

Her death bed is her honeymoon

Burning into a decade of distant cries.

The tequila bottle lays dry –

On the couch as I desperately make love

The flamenco singers and the Mexican charm

Repeats itself –

Come on in, come on in.

I never saw you,

Not in a picture,

Not in a frame,

Upon somebody’s shelf,

Or in the Time magazine,

Not that I remember of –

In a forgotten nightmare or a dream.

But the eyes of Frida Kahlo still hold me down

Pins me to the ground –

From a different time and space

A several light years go ‘round.

The walls would collide on her self-portrait –

That sleeps like a giant serpent after a feast.

And the Ghost of Frida Kahlo would let me be –

Like I am; sitting on a window beside a distant dream.

~ Durjoy

(10^th October, 2010)