She places the gray rectangle of shadow
above her chin, delicately as a name card
at a dinner setting. It looks like Velcro
and roughs her skin. She hangs silver mirrors
from her earlobes, and paints the endless
Mexican desert behind her pupils, unlit.
She purses the red tin of her lips.
This face invents her
as she sits potted
before the mirror.
Outside of the frame
her hands are cupping the sun and
shifting with its hours.
7 comments:
Oh fuck. Wow.
I LOVE THINGS THAT SUPPORT MY OBSESSION WITH REVISION. I think I'll do the opposite you did to your first draft to turn it into this to the last poem I wrote.
This is like if Anne Sexton did free verse, by the way.
I guess I'll have to start reading Anne Sexton.
And I'm obsessed with revision, too. I can't believe in a finished product. It's endless.
oh yeah, that's tight.
is frida amazing? i remember seeing that show in mexico and the power of her paintings and the symbolism... it just screams with emotion.
frida IS amazing!
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