March 16

Diego,

Frida Kahlo is a liar. Did I say I do not think the banks of a river suffer by letting the river run? How could that be? What happens to the banks while the river runs?  Don’t they become worn down–no longer able to hold the river in?  The river is strong and goes where it pleases while the banks remain–not able to move. Even when the river returns, it is hopeless–it will happen again and again. Everything will be knocked down–flowers–new shoots of grass. Damn you, Diego, even when you are in my arms, I watch you–wonder which day it will be–the pain grows bigger–in my throat.  Why don’t you feel sorry for wearing me down? When I plead with you–you look away out of the window. I see you disappear around the corner in the afternoon because a pretty girl has come and said, “Mr. Rivera, I admire you so much.” She begs and you climb down from your scaffold–ready to overflow. I will not beg you for anything. I will hit you in the street. I will scratch your big face–leave you in the street–lock the door–and then I will cry and hate you at the same time.

Frida

Mary Julia Klimenko c.2010