Frida in my Garden
Two lips petaled, pursed
wilting leaves yet thriving
alive wild piercing
eyes sininster soft sultry
heart staring back
midst winding stems in a sunless corner
next to the painting of the black
man in a black hat in a chair
smiling. You look on as if
into another realm
I think I’ve dreamed of it once
the flowers were large and violent
the catepillars were chainsmoking and arrogant
and all the newscasters flashed their
brash white grins, ferociously
feigning chewed humor
spittling sports specs and war
while voraciously gnashing
and guzzling words
about murders
that happened yesterday,
next door.
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