Frida Holds A White Rabbit
like a baby. She doesn't
smile for the camera,
as she cradles
el conejo blanco,
como un bebe, in her arms,
the white rabbit of her longing
like the infant she never carried to term,
the fat white conejo of infidelity,
little effigy of Diego, its flat contented face
so much like his: the barren
moonscape of his apology.
She looks tired.
She rests her head on her hand,
her mouth a small horizon in the shadows
She is thinking about the engorged
conejo of his politics,
the fuzzy impersonality of his vision,
the little female comrades in his murals.
Where is her anger?
Does it leap through the agave now
swift as the jackrabbit of Tehuantepec?
Does it burn in the desert?
No because el fuego de Frida’s
resentment is gone for good.
No more galloping around here,
keeping up with the horses.
No more bites on the cheek
for you, you selfish rider!
Frida’s just plain worn out.
She’s taken el conejo back,
and she’s holding him like the baby he is.
Frida squeezes him so close
he’s short of breath. Come on,
smile for the camera, Frida. Smile,
as two crows fly above your eyes.
After the photograph: “Frida Kahlo With A White Rabbit,
Blue House, Coyoacan, Mexico City”
1949 by Hector Garcia