Frida to Diego
My infant, my love,
The eaves tremble with your laughter.
My body shakes above you,
a cracked boat on the sea.
My beautiful Gargantua,
my lovely monster, I would suckle you,
feed your enormous hunger.
Broken as I am, I weep blue-white milk,
rivers of it, for my lostlings, for you.
When you come home, you wag your centaur head
reeking of other women in your mane. Half-penitent, half-proud.
No matter. I draw you near while our fighting words
still drift above us like smoke from burning Judas figures.
I will not flinch when the embers land on my face.
My eyes will seek your eyes, and stay.
I will drink you forever and grow enormous
as a moon, full of you.
Diego to Frida
My peg leg, my dark brow,
Forgive me, Fridita, for I forgive you
because you do not see it,
the light that spills from the creases
in the low center of every woman.
Light with color, you see?
one like an orange marigold,
another with the velvet
ray as from a calla lily,
misty, milk-pale, and I am pulled
as one who falls.
It is not my pito that is the trouble, dear one,
it is my feeble eyes. I am just an old man
with dim eyes that need more light,
more light in order to see.
I ply the source to save us all
from becoming beggars,
deaf and stumbling.
You must believe me.
And you? Not light,
but music pours from you.
Here, little dove, my incendiary love,
let me put my face closer, lower
to hear you better.