of Frida Kahlo believing
I can change the world
and if not the world,
then a lightbulb, the channel,
change the binoculars from blurry
to focused gaze.
I'm walking through a museum
wishing I were someone
else, trying to determine
if inspiration is taught
or a god-given gift.
Either way, I'm tired.
Frida and a stranger take notes
on my insecurities,
Frida and the museum guard,
Frida and the exit sign.
I don't believe we should carry backup
plans in life's suitcase—
they're too easy to unpack
like living a life in yoga pants,
so comfortable our hips spread
into new timezones,
apathy becomes less rare.
Frida is tired of my mindtalk,
my head-in-the-oven, finger-on-bake
attitude. How many hours have I lost
because I wasn't paying attention?
She tells me to quiet, as if she won't
rub off soon, as if I can survive
without having her near my skin.
Kelli Russell Agodon
