It's called, "Votive Vision."
"She draws.
She draws a door of breath, breathes on the pane,
the glass, and draws a door.
An O, spells polio, six years old.
She draws.
She dreams, walks with her father again, river of glass
to the river of collecting bits of this
and that to examine later under the microscope,
to hold shells, and plants, and stones, to draw.
All is votive vision drawn to the swirling.
Live your life.
And her beloved papa photographs her, and she adores,
makes love to the lens even then.
Live your life.
Embrace the life you've been given,
your grave image, even then.
All is votive desire.
And Tina Modotti will photograph you,
and Lucienne Block will photograph you, Edward Weston,
Nickolas Murray, Lola Alvarez Bravo.
And you make love freely to the lens,
and your life opens, and your life
widens like the river, your grave reflection in the glass.
Small boats in the air makes love to you and the heat,
listen, the drums, and you leave the frame.
Incessant, your life, just a girl opening a door.
She loves the sun clanging, and she's drawn,
drawn to the swirling, the way color keeps coming and going,
the way color drawn to the longing.
Her teacher holds an orange and a flame.
Imagine vastness, the planets.
She dreams the orange over, solar system
drawn to the spinning.
She stands in awe.
She draws, each mark a door.
With her finger in the dirt, she makes a 3.
She dreams.
You are the alegria girl.
Your lucky numbers are three, 7, 9,
and I am just trying to keep up.
She closes her eyes, just a child,
and touches her dreamy thigh before the accident,
mischievous one, cheeky, cheeky one climbing trees,
prankster, anarchic in the afternoon,
already, her dark dares, her fierce pursuit of pleasure,
her refusal to refuse joy.
Votive-- courage, you are the alegria girl, ferocious child
of fire, and I am standing next to your heat and light
for all these years.
Aura, halo, oriole, you leave the frame, searching, looking,
Fulang Chang, childish pranks, monkey business,
monkeys hanging, clinging to your neck,
'Fulang Chang,' you shout.
Monkeys clinging, her sexual sunflower, halo, fire,
setting off firecrackers, throwing sparklers, light, even
then.
Hanging from a tree upside down, the sun
climbing monkeys, children clinging to her neck,
and she's drawn.
She calls her monkey, 'Fulang Chang,' she shouts.
Irresistible one, taking, asking, begging, looking,
looking harder, watching through the window, just a child.
She sees her face in the glass, draws, river of, all is vision.
The sun clanging, Fulang Chang, all is light,
drawn to the way color keeps coming and going,
the way color--
In the public gardens, in the whirling of her, drawn,
aura, halo, Alejandro, dreamboat, teenage Frida
screaming, ven Alejandro, pink petals, the open fruit,
giving up soaked, juicy pulp, and swoon, and sea, need,
and lush ambrosia, the soft, dark nub.
Votive-- cup.
Oh, you are a curious one.
In a knapsack, Frida carried a notebook
with drawings, pinned butterflies,
and dried flowers, colored pens, and philosophy books
from her father's library.
And I am writing after her, just trying to keep up.
Elusive, fleeting, beautiful one, and I
am left again with everything that escapes the page.
Listen, the judgments, and you leave the frame.
In the margin of her love letter,
she draws a woman with a long neck,
pointed chin, enormous eyes.
Don't tear her, Alejandro, because she is very pretty,
an ideal type.
She draws a cat and laughs, another ideal type.
Then, Alejandro, let's peel.
Let's peel back 24 hours of incessant drumming on Good
Friday together, gently.
Watch as I do it, a little bit of skin, my love, my love, just
oh, you are a curious one, a little to reveal, you tease,
and later to paint.
Fruit spread on the Earth, dripping, fruit now open,
peeled back beneath an open sky.
See how she-- free, a little free.
Translucent, gleaming, sun-drenched mischief maker,
see how she--
lit by roses, incessant dreaming,
and she learns to swear.
In the square on the day, she skipped school.
Already, her dark dares, her pursuit of pleasure,
love letters, Alejandro, answer me, answer me,
her extracted heart
in her hands, her refusal to refuse pain posing even then.
Unstoppable, ribbons of light set me free, answer me,
and she leaves the frame.
Answer me.
The girls say they are dying in the formal European.
In the corridor of rules, in the diminutives, in the diminished,
in the regulations, the girls say, bored
with their pedestals, their Europe of thorns and decorum,
dark courtyards and order, looking, looking harder.
Watching through the window, the child
sees her face escape in the glass and follows it.
All is vision and dream.
She draws her breath on glass.
The two like to loiter in the public gardens drawn
to the light, green, eye, and dream.
Look, oh, look, watching him on a scaffold at the preparatoria.
Incessant painting drawn to the debilitating, the promise,
drawn to the fat man, Diego Rivera
painting in the air, creation.
Can you feel it, the way color, shape--
Diego, Diego Rivera, who's there?
She soaks the stairs and shouting from nowhere,
'insolent child, watch out, fat man, your wife is coming.
You'll be caught, face of a dog, face of a frog,
his hundred clandestine affairs, just a girl.'
My only ambition is to have a child
by Diego Rivera, the painter, and I
am going to tell him someday.
Frida, you are crazy, just a girl at the prepa.
Incessant dreaming, a fat man with a palette
on a scaffold casting beauty, casting appalling possibility
on her.
Childish pranks to dispel the strangeness,
her sexual halo even then, 'you must have been an angel,' he
mutters from the height, heat, and light.
And one day, she shall marry it.
But for now-- and you return to the frame.
Imposing is like freedom sometimes.
Her dreamy teenage dreamboat, Alejandro,
who will leave her sorry, loose, promiscuous one,
incessant drumming, dreaming, answer me,
voracious in the afternoon.
The girls say they are dying.
Incessant dreaming asked to conform
in the thorned courtyard, exhausted
by all the tired forms.
Asked to believe those, assume those, revere those,
draw a blue door.
Preposterous sexual stances of modesty and silence,
a little free, a door, the girls like to kiss
in the shadows, smooth and perfect thigh tonight,
world tonight, voracious, irreverent.
Assume those postures of, I'm sorry, and silence,
curious one, self-indulgent mischief maker,
'Fulang Chang,' she shouts with glee.
Answer me, who's there?
Drawn to the vision, partially revealed,
voracious, microscope, lens, windows, I. The girls
say they are in those rooms of judgments and pronouncements
dying in the hedges, and they leave the frame.
Sparklers, and she draws a blue door, dips her hand in the--
Votive-- chalice, the girls like to kiss sometimes
and other things.
The two girls love to dance, her charms and secret numbers,
setting off sparklers, fetish, altar, free a little,
venga, come to me, blue world, magenta, red, the way color
keeps opening, flower, chalice, just a girl, mischief maker,
drinking tequila like a real mariachi.
The girls say they are.
The two girls love to loiter in the public gardens
of the university district where they
would listen to the organ grinders
and chat with truants and newsboys.
The two girls loved, and the bells, tolling,
miraculous cup, sun-drenched.
She dips her hands.
Beauty is convulsive, as Breton will say, as your friend,
Andre Breton will say someday or not at all.
Incessant dreaming, answer me, she is the alegria girl,
the way beauty keeps coming, the way color vibrates, convulsive,
drawn to the swirling, drawn to the light.
She is the alegria girl, incessant dreaming,
sparklers come to me already on fire."