Tuesday Poem: an earlier version published by Umbrella in 2010

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