The Dot in Your "i" (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Of a world I never saw and only imagined,

like the Louvre, I wished to visit and did not,

though Paris was the mecca for surreal artists.

San Franscisco had to suffice.

It had a charm but was so unlike my Mexico

with Romanesque concrete columns and the windswept Bay,

yet not so different from Mexico's tiny, winding streets and steep hills.

Houses were tall and thin and stacked upon one another,

windows with high square eyes peering down

rather than squat and wide.

They were awash with drab, demure colors

while my hometown was short, fat casas

painted obscenely 

sometimes screaming in

bright floral.

San Franscisco was elegance, education

and art exhibits by fine capitalists whom I did not believe in. 

Upon returning to Mexico, I was always relieved 

to be out of the societal straitjacket

and back where I could speak fast and loudly

and smoke to my heart's content.

Brave blood was running through my veins

of my European father and Mexican Indian mother. 

Not a mixed-up heritage, but two coordinated worlds lived under my skin.

One not better than another, though richer and poorer

is usually confused for better or worse. 

I was most at home in my Tahoua dress and braided hair.

Each is born in a period of time so brief

like the dot over an "i." 

The one importance we have,

what will outshine our mortality

is whatever art, music, and literature we leave behind.

Beauty ages and crumbles into a pound of messy ashes,

and money is handed to someone else. 

Only expression, and what men have well built

will stand the test of time. 

Wherever you live, in whatever period you live,

this is your chance to give your all.

Though your time is nearly done,

sands of the hourglass are still falling.

Do not wish your life away,

lamenting, "If only I were here or there, 

or with my lost love."

I spent too much time mourning

instead of fully making use of my talent.

Do not let pain or regret determine your outcome.

Resolve not to squander the dot in your "i."

Get as close to genius as you can. 

Then, and only then, will you feel glad you have lived. 

With Love,

Frida