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.