Frida

The woman gave a canvas her condolences 

It had just been crucified.

Coarse white fabric 

Stretched and stabbed by rigid wood and metal.

Despite its fate, it still recoils. 

It holds itself onto an even more abused easel 

Touched by times of devotion and Secrecy.

Still standing from its vows of promise 

Upon them

She started to conjourn apologetic strokes.

With each press of her brush

Green here, stipple there

Her hand tries to defibrillate the chest of the canvas. 

The easel cooing the canvas the best it could

But after a while

The canvas became stiff

The dried pigments stopping it’s perseverance

She was the only thing breathing in the room

In the midst of her realization

She broke down to her closet

Lifting her long skirt, she erupted to her familiar mirror

The Familiar Mantra

“I am of no world but Both

I am neither favored nor forgotten

I am neither tethered nor apart

I am neither loud nor quiet

I am neither burden nor self

I am of no world but Both”