Kahlo, El Aborto

You learn first what leaks from you. That your lines are
long enough. What slept in you,
over warm weeks: a damp light, and vomit.
You cleave to a body, a new body
cleaves to you. You cleave from that body,
cleave to yourself.

Eyes like freshwater on the moon.
I managed to draw you out of service.
The snow flew in.

Cry, where the lovers leeched, where his cells
did close. That which, starless,
stares back at you: betray it.

Manifold days that I stole your pleated dress,
your beated heart. And I love being found,
the plainsong of your voice. Do you remember the thrill
when our roots crossed? How it would kill us?1A poem after the untitled lithograph by Frida Kahlo.

“Frida Kahlo” (2001) by Maria de Oro, via Flickr | Licensed under Creative Commons CC BY-ND 2.0


  • Ben Goodman

    Ben Goodman is a poet, counselor, and educator. He was born and raised in Mount Kisco, NY, where he currently resides.

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