she wears a single plume,
plucked from the tail feather of a hawk. it hangs over
one shoulder as brown, ringlets fall idly beside it.
frida and diego now comfortably reside within her;
isadora and diaghilev are here too.
there is no longer any separation between.
she writes poetry
for herself
because if she doesn't, who will?
flying with the night, a chaste wind at her back,
her sharp beak punctures consciousness.
words are simply an agreement, spoken between
flickering tongues. the transformative fire of love
burns
our hearts wide open. holes let the light in. illuminating
the once dark caverns of our collective psyche.
if i told you i was lying, would you believe me?
if i told you anything, would you hear?
do you care to listen to the stirrings of this now?
can you see the vision unfolding?
look up. it's you. soaring through a bitter sky.
feel in. it's me. hurting just like you.
taste it all. take it out. experience the unknown.
tap into the center and know, we're almost here.
and, there we are.
home.
