RHODODENDRONS

for Frida

 

You took them

from his thick hands–

 

the flowers he picked

from the garden.

 

One by one you made

a bouquet of them

 

in your braided,

raven hair, painted 

 

yourself with color

again. Then

 

leaned against the coral 

and blue-turquoise canvas

 

of your house and took

his hand, now free,

 

kissed it, pressed it

against your cheek.

 

A stolen moment

between artists.

 

The voyeurs in us blushed

 under your gaze,

 

under the museum lighting,

under our masks.

 

We saw ourselves

in you.