| Author | Message | ||
| M
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3279 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Frida’s Brushes Laurie Byro I am the girl who washes Frida’s brushes while I kneel on hot bricks and the sun crackles my back. Colors pour out of us like lanced boils: red-tinged orchid, puss yellow. They will remember her for her sailor’s mouth; the way she conquered death by committing herself over and over to canvass. I shall remember the flush of pink when she held Rivera like a baby. The surge of blood, the mulch of mother earth. I shall remember a wounded deer in a forest of celery. Colors that stain the damp bricks while I wash out her mistakes. My knees ache, not from prayer, but from duty. The monkeys that shriek from her brushes taunt: “Diego, Diego, Diego, Diego.” |
