My darling Frida, / by Risa Denenberg
Roots (The Pedregal), 1943
Rooted you are, on cracked earth.
An orangeness of eros. Your vegetal limbs
belie the verdant recline, lured by the curve
of your lie. Such ease in one so sinewy is hard
to regard. There stems the question: will you rise?
Or are you now an abiding feature of parched soil?
You were so prone, so mangled, so stiff-backed,
it is nothing short of miracle that you seem
so insouciant in place. Pillowed and soft,
all your sharpness cushioned.
But I am not fooled.
Your shank goes deeper than mere bodies will sink.
Earth unfastens for you, draws you, grows into you
and from you, invites you to its riddles. Your gown frills
at the edges just as the black fall of your hair unwinds.
And so you are also the sky, the bed, the monkey-day,
my hero, the needle to my heroin.