Talking to Frida Kahlo

I am not you.
You stand, you sit,
and you untie yourself
on a canvas of pain and truth.
I escape.

Behind surrealistic scenes,
you strike reality;
I flutter fantasy.

“No! ”
eyebrows straighten,
your silent self rises.

“Yes…”
I manage to forge
               a smile,
in every flash of blue.

I call that “hope”,
knowing you name it
“mirage”.

This late version becomes one of April 2012 Challenge Winning poems.

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