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.

Shelley Wong