May 14


Outside my room, the crickets sing. That means I am alone–crickets love the empty night–and I know that wherever you are, the crickets are not singing. The weight of your child growing against my bones is becoming more difficult. I am afraid. Diego, you know nothing of the broken body–scars that are colored on the inside deeper than your love for any mysterious woman. These are the colors I try to paint–I see them in my dreams–but never capture them completely.  A color changes like a lizard pursued. What color is a deer with arrows stuck in its body? Does the color change with pain and does it really matter? You paint your murals of workmen–pay homage to Marx–can you paint the color of a woman who listens to crickets?  Can you find a color for the pain that travels miles through still night air, to your Frida, who knows how your hands search in darkness over the endless terrain of woman?  Diego, what does your brush say for women who bleed lives out over clean white hospital sheets? No one–not even the crickets–will hold my hand while I stare at this color.