‘Frida Kahlo,

San Miguel, Ash Wed­nes­day’

Harper's Bazaar (UK) - - Talking Points - by Mar­garet At­wood

You faded so long ago but here in the sou­venir ar­cade you’re ev­ery­where: the printed cot­ton bags, the pierced tin boxes, the red T-shirts, the beaded crosses: your coiled braids, your level stare, your body of a deer or mar­tyr.

It’s an im­age you can turn into if your end­ing’s strange enough and ar­dent, and in­volves much pain. The rope of a hanged man brings good luck; saints dan­gle up­side down or of­fer their breasts on a plate and we wear them, we in­voke them, in­sert them be­tween our flesh and dan­ger.

Fire­works, two streets over. Some­thing’s burn­ing some­where, or did burn, once.

A torn silk veil, a yel­low­ing letter: I’m dy­ing here.

Love on a skewer, a heart in flames. We breathe you in, thin smoke, grief in the form of ashes.

Yes­ter­day the chil­dren smashed their hol­lowed eggs on the heads of others, bap­tiz­ing them with glit­ter.

Shell frag­ments lit­ter the park like the wings of crushed but­ter­flies, like sand, like con­fetti: azure, sun­set, blood, your colours.

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