a lightbulb

I wear a temporary tattoo
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