It is easy to forget that only the rarest of people have something interesting to say about themselves. But Fleda Brown proves a mesmerizing exception—anything she cares to share is manna for our deepest needs. Brown is the author of thirteen collections, and in her prizepoeting role, she has won Pushcart, Felix Pollak, and Philip Levine prizes.
Dear Frida Kahlo
I see you, what you want: the world inside out, framed, a ceremony
of sealing the door. Like Julian of Norwich in her nine-by-eleven
cell, flint walls, dirt floor covered with aromatic leaves and rushes.
So close to dying while alive, so everlastingly straight-on. Looking
at you looking at me, Frida, is like dying. It is like gathering the
taut men we’ve loved while our bodies broke, our hearts broke,
gathering them to a mutual stillness. I half wish you would let me
let go, let go of me with your colors, your shadow mustache, your
bleeding soul. I have suffered enough, myself. I am okay here, now.
Let us leave issues of the soul to Julian. Let God take her below her
prayers to the tender core where the trembling gates stand open. Let
her squeeze down into a lozenge of herself someone could take and
feel better, throat and nose opened, a hint of eucalyptus. You and I,
God help us, do not wish to be cured.
Disclosure: This article is not an endorsement, but a review. The publisher of this book provided free copies of the book to have their book reviewed by a professional reviewer. No fee was paid by the publisher for this review. Foreword Reviews only recommends books that we love. Foreword Magazine, Inc. is disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.