Were you beautiful—yes.
Were you alive—yes,
despite that traitorous spine
and the foot—
that damned pata—
broken
ulcerous
gangrenous—
then gone. Briefly survived.
I think about Frida’s foot
and the steps it took over floors
and roads and rock.
The dragging out of an endless injury,
the dances it watched,
the red boots that usurped it.
I think about Frida’s foot dragging
as a ball and chain,
a lump of uncooperative flesh and think
What do I know of pain?
Nothing
but what I know of Frida’s blood,
her blackened toes,
her feet and
wings.