Hurricane Frida by Devi Nina Bingham

It was not the money I longed for.

Why would I want dull and ordinary things?

I owned my world: paints, canvasses, brushes.

What I wanted was beyond recognition,

so I became the suffering Madonna

smoking like a chimney,

and the alcoholic Lady of Guadalupe.

I turned to these not because I craved the taste of ash

or the bitter tang of Sangria on my tongue,

but because they were easy to come by,

common crutches that helped me to stand.

It was not addiction I lived for, 

for I was better and stronger than that.

In one snap of my spine, I could have

ripped off my medical corset

and walked again.

But I took to the bed

because it was the only time

you came to visit.

Something about seeing me there,

laying helpless as a trampled daisy

made you able to see me.

My natural strength was subdued

like a light turned down,

like the sunshine dampened by rain

and you felt safe to come out into the open.

But a hurricane this far inland?

Did you always have to run?

Escaping love that wanted the best for you.

No reason for this nonsensical fear of being caught

in the natural calamity that was me.

But I saw, to my relief, it was not only me

but any woman. 

No one could hold you

and yet, it was a cold consolation. 

So I chained-smoked and drank in an idiotic fashion

to show myself and others that I was unafraid to die.

Death, death, death-

skeletons with glowing ruby red eyes

wearing sombreros and chugging Tequila

that slipped right through you! 

I loved Dia de Muertos

for it mirrored where I was headed-

the dark, undisturbed grave

where robbers could not reveal my bones or my heart.

Hurricanes do not apologize for their strength

so I never apologized to you for getting carried away.

I was born a force which is why

trolleys and iron bars impaled me.

I was a hurricane wadded up inside of a little peasant girl.

Everything, including love

was made to imperil me. 

It was my eyebrows knit together into a silent scowl 

and my sideways stare that suggested a storm was brewing.

It is because hurricanes are so frightful

that I was alone.

Yet had you offered a hand

you would have seen my turbulence melt away,

for that was the only thing missing.

One touch would have calmed the storm

that was Hurricane Frida.