Frida Alone


Thoughts of the self held in dry paper, paint and wood.

Floating grandparents, a circle of life,

Brittle as a fleshless leg.


For one who was picked out of the trash,

Nothing grew well in her except her cleverness.

She shuffled with it locked inside


Until the mirror faces shone;

Velvet, dark chocolate Botticelli’s

With stiff eel fingers and eyebrow moustache.


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Sentinel Poetry #33

Online Magazine Monthly, August 2005. ISSN 1479-425X. Editor: Amatoritsero Ede