Invitation with Dirty Hands
        as Frida

In the blue house, my table examines
her hands and sets them on the floor.
Do the trees remember falling,
their branches snapping one by one
with their attendant flowers? I hear
fruit teething in wooden bowls.
The grave men walk with knives
up their sleeves. But I don't
blame them. I said yes. Stems refuse
and we break them. Happy skeleton,
dance with me: any part you want to play,
I will welcome you. I attend
to arranging fruit. My small beginnings—
do they lie buried like stones. Eggwhite
lilies watch blues turn
to purple. Blood in the dirt smears
my gleaming hands. Bodies below
like old fruit with worms for ribbons.
Paradise must have so many leaves
waving us forward in white sun.
Please arrive. Lie with me
among the weeds. I'm queen
for good. Las cempasuchiles
are latching into my bloodline.
Their soft throats crowd closer.

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Copyright © 2017 Shelley Wong All rights reserved
from Rare Birds
Diode Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission