Frida Finally Leaves Diego and Moves to Nebraska

I get up from the kitchen table
and walk into the blizzard
of my canvas.

By dawn, I’ve painted my little red brick house
with its single lit window.  If you look closely, you can see
me, brush in hand, painting Diego

into my womb, the one place where he cannot possibly be
hungry. I listen to the second hand tap its pen against
the silence. The hourglass is empty.
My heart is a little girl banging on a grand piano
composed of black keys.