after Frida Kahlo
All night, I pull thread.
In the morning, I button my shirt
left over right. I kick the dust
with my black hooves and
turn from the corner where
I once played at wife. You are
terrible music, the song that
slowly singes. But no longer:
my blood has switched. I am
the rough-handed woman
whose silence keeps others
locked in chairs. I will march
into the city and you will wait
in our kitchen, the bread
going stale, the monkey
concealing his face.