March 3


I don’t want to write this to you. I want you to hug me dead with those huge warm arms of yours. Nothing else matters. Outside, the only thing of interest is the lightning and that only because it might crack above my head–harder–frighten me good–make me grateful. But that won’t happen to me, will it, Diego? Put down your brush. You cannot paint the color of lightning, so what good is it?  Take me to the sea where we can be afraid together. You did not speak over your coffee today or yesterday. Now it is raining again and it is your fault, Diego. Shall I call you Diego of the Brushes, Diego of the Murals, Diego of the Dog Face, who let his poor Frida die of faded ribbon and lonely heart? Diego, do you hear me?