The Frida Kahlo Tree: A Fable
       

She never felt so human,
the spring she turned into
a tree. How strange, at first,
pulling moisture up through
her roots that mirrored
her crown above, laden
among cones and blossoms,
entangled in butterfly and bee
rivulets—her skin a bark
for doctoring moss, her leaves
shimmering and spinning in the winds
with God's language. Wayfarers
and sailors rested in her hallow.
Her hundreds of mouths opened
and closed all at once, indoctrinating
all the elements save one.
                    Then the darkness began,
the wrapping and braiding of her arms
by unseen hands or maybe
by her own, the tarred canvas
and crotch strap drawn tighter
at the throat. The staking of her tongues,
her branches grown into butcher knives.
She scoured the horizon for the sun:
her heart. All trees have hearts.
Her heart became a magnifying glass,
the burning mirror dilated—
the sun burned all the bindings
off, setting free her wandering selves.
Resin and smoke rose to the stars.
And sometimes after work or at home she senses
clusters of new blossoms on her boughs.

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Copyright © 2016 Catherine Bowman All rights reserved
from Can I Finish, Please?
Four Way Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission