votive: courage
not the leg
the blackened toes — then take
night is falling.
black not the leg
black black toes
black
night is falling in my life. not the leg
Ringing
the amputation 3 free let me—
let me
3 7 9 live
Did the bells not mean she might be saved might—not the leg—be saved
Take the toes then
Bargaining in someone’s religion — a made-up thing
3 7 9
the little girl’s stash of butterflies, marbles, paints, charms
these are the games she—not the leg not the—
these are the games let’s play awhile
chattering, counting, babbling
while she drags out her headless dolls her perverse tell all her bartering her not the leg—and the paintings—
pain arranged laid bare
poised like that
look, look
Frida what?
Frida what is it?
Over there.
drawn to the vision
her head in a sunflower — engulfed by that flame. Her head.
Frida.
she wiggles her—
toes, toes then take
adiós, mi amigos, adiós
not the leg.
Dr. Farill recommended that her foot be amputated, leaving only the heel.
Dr. Glusker brought a Doctor Puig, a Catalán bone surgeon educated in the U.S.
her lucky numbers are—
adiós
begging
she’ll be begging—
not the leg.
in pieces
take all the toes at once.
anything but—
You know Frida that I think it is useless to just cut your toes … because of the gangrene.
I think Frida, the moment has come when it would be better to
not the — not the — not the
cut off your leg.
not old not over not ready to go
You know Frida that I think that it is useless.
you stole from me fourteen beds, fourteen machine guns and fourteen of everything. He only left me his pen, he even stole the lamp, he stole everything.
Blood in the corner now saturating the page.
Covered in gold where does your life
A metal rod through the pelvis
But not the leg
You know Frida that I think it is—
Cracked pelvis — useless — you know—
Not the leg
You know Frida
Points of support
On my whole body there is only one; and I want two. In order to have two they have to cut one. It is the one that I do not have that I have to have in order to be able to walk, the other will already be dead!
Raquel Tiboclass="underline"
Irritated by the vital energy that radiated from an object that she had created, an energy that she, in her own movements, no longer possessed, she took a knife made in Michoacan which had a straight and cutting edge, and overcoming the lassitude produced by her nocturnal injections, with tears in her eyes, and a convulsive grin on her tremulous lips, she began to scratch the painting slowly, too slowly. The noise of steel against very dry oil paint grew like a lament in the morning in this space of Coyoacan where she had been born.… She scratched, annihilating, destroying herself; it was her sacrifice and her expiation.
Your tears are nails
the pigeon made mistakes
it made mistakes.
Instead of going North it went South
It thought the wheat was water
It made mistakes.
not the leg
the sun and the moon out together indicating the sorrow of all creation
her head is fire
one stiff, paper-doll-like arm. The central Frida is armless. One bandaged foot …
not old, not over, not ready to go.
the leg
In the night the bone men come and in the day.
enclosed in a steel corset for eight months.
the leg
Like a lament in the morning.
Dr. Eloesser mentions that Frida had been painting up to three months prior to his visit, that she has headaches, and that for a period of time she had had a continuous fever. Her leg, he said, was in constant pain. The rest is illegible except for the word “gangrene.”
Votive: oblivion. She swerves.
Leaves. Blades, cupboards, sparrow
I sell it all for nothing. I do not believe
in illusion. You smoke terrible.
smoke. Marx. life, the great
joker, nothing has a name.
I don’t look at shapes, the paper
love. wars, tangled hair, pitchers.
claws, submerged spiders, lives
in alcohol, children are the days and
here it is stopped.
Her sister Matilde:
They fused three vertebrae with a bone of I don’t know who and the first eleven days were something terrifying for her.
They gave her Chloromycetin every four hours and her temperature began to drop a little but that’s the way it has been since the 4th of April when they operated for a second time and now the corset is dirty as a pigsty since she is secreting through her bag, it smells like a dead dog and these señores say that the wound is not closing and the poor child is their victim.
the desperately festive falling apart Frida
All dressed up with nowhere to go
I sell everything for nothing.… I do not believe in illusion … the great vacillator. Nothing has a name. I do not look at forms … drowned spiders. Lives in alcohol. Children are the days and here is where I end.
your head is flowers, your body the body of a deer, pierced
Without Hope, she scrapes, it is coming
4 black toes
it is coming
Votive: Sorrow Mirror of Night
3, 7 and 9 are your lucky numbers. You put them in a glittering box. You add a pink ribbon, a drawing, a lock of hair. Black feather. You are no fool. The end is nearing. You draw a right foot, right foot, a right foot.
You return now to the women. In the calm violence of your being, desire. You draw a right foot as you drag yourself across the page to this final place.
Your tears are nails. You hold them in your mouth. Your last Calvary. Sorrow.
And hear now the women praying their dark rosary — the tone of the cross, 10 our fathers, 10 hail Marys, the drag and hum of the cross. The wound of the cross. Salt.
A paper halo once — a child’s cutout falling useless to the floor. See how she suffers. A halo of paper and pins to keep the disintegrated shoulder bone intact. Visiting the woman held together by paper and pins. What do you know of suffering? she asks. And she is right. Paper dolls holding hands. Good-bye.
You clutch your fetus in a bottle laughing snidely. So sweet, so angry, so nasty. Formaldehyde. You are no fool. Singing Mexican drinking songs. Your country gone to broken blood and roses. Forcing the head. Fuck. Your hands arranging flowers in the dark. You finger your pendants, charms. Laughing. Imagine fingering — you see—