Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell
by Marty McConnell
leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.
We thrive in negative space.
Our excess is quiet. It sits between our dinner plates.
It watches me from the back seat as I watch the landscapes run by my open window.
Like us, it is there, and it isn’t.
Sometimes, unknowingly it kicks me in bed at night.
It takes up the space between us. It lies there.
A blissfully unaware division.
Sometimes, it is kind. It’s soft presence is a comfort to me.
It sits on the toilet as I shower and walks with me on the promenade when you are working.
In those moments it feels like mine. It is part of me and part of the world.
Yet,
Sometimes it is unsettling. It is pulls at my skirt and flip-flops inside me.
I sense it staring at me from the sofa when you tell me that you’re turning in early for the night.
It sits heavy on my lap, grabbing at my chest during dinner with your family.
In these moments it feels alien. The presence of its pressure, surmounting and inescapable.
It does not bother you.
It does not follow you during your days or ravage your thoughts.
You are free from its clawing hands and watchful eyes.
You escape both it’s love and greed. It is yours and it isn’t.
You and I spoil our silence.
This excess is insidious. It is always with us.
Although muted, it wreaks havoc between us and within us.
Yet,
We keep it close.
We love our lack too much.
-Isabella Rieger (also known as me: thelaughinggorgon.tumblr.com)
