FRIDA KAHLO COMES TO DINNER 
Christine M. Strickland 
 Frida Kahlo has come to dinner, 
Late, as usual, a little drunk, as usual, 
Scattering fag ash like confetti, 
Partnered by her perpetual pain 
Whose grim claws she wears as lightly 
As the ribbons on her dress. 
Undefeated, her thirst for life unquenched, 
There is more energy in her hair 
Than in my entire body. 
The brass band of her beads and bangles 
Transforms her limping steps 
Into a fiesta dance, all rainbow skirts 
And flashing teeth and eyes. 
Frida Kahlo has come to dinner, 
Though eating frankly bores her, 
Gets in the way of talking, drinking, 
Smoking, making love. 
Aware of this I give her tiny pastries 
Olives, nuts, morsels of spiced meat; 
Fuel for her flame, swallowed without tasting. 
Frida Kahlo has come to dinner 
And the carnival never stops. 
Her long hands are two kites, 
Trailing coloured tails of laughter, 
Sketching, in the smoky air between us, 
Whole galleries of portraits. 
Frida Kahlo has been to dinner 
And is now gone, taking the party with her, 
Leaving this withered Puritan 
Faded, dusty, unbearably alone. 

