Thinking of Frida Kahlo

Before,
I rattled in the mirror
leaving prints and smudges
on the stucco wall;
the floor had kept traces
of my stains.

At night,
I dreamed of birds
picking daisies
and tearing my camisole;
even howlers had played
with my nipples.

Weekends,
I danced salsa
and in heels I orgasmed
in ballroom tango;
my hips had seduced
with their own language.

Now,
those are just thoughts
of a lonely mind
wanting to revolt;
my body has given up
to atrophy.

Lately,
my belly yearns
for the hands that unbutton
and excitedly grope;
my thighs have forgotten
the thickness of muscles.

In time,
I and my chair
will find the pulse
in the friction of our embrace;
my pelvis has begun
feeling the smooth edges.

 

——

Miya Ko is a writer in Southern California who enjoys waves and coffee.

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