Frida Kahlo Self-Portrait 1940

Her gaze is ravin sharp. Her eyebrows soar across her vacant brow.
There’s a vague resemblance to a kiss on her lips. Arrows of sharp
foliage fence her off from the clouds. Skeletal twigs climb above
each shoulder like featherless wings. The thorned hoop around
her muscled neck leaves red cranes gliding along her collar bones
and tadpoles diving into her heart. Her chin climbs into her throat;
buckling her tongue to the locked gate of her teeth. Her nose
is flared. Her eyes take aim at a point outside of the frame.
The milagro in her ear hangs with its fingers pointing down, while
cindered wings fail to fly up.

Charles Simic, Meet Frida Kahlo

If a place can be lit by a glass of milk, then eyebrows can be

a smoking wick.

If a shadow can have roots, then a woman’s eye can have a hilt.

If a white cloud can have a steeple, then a nose can have thorns.

If sleep can be dyed red, then a mouth can be an overturned nest.

If breath can be rustling leaves, then stillness can be a trap door.

If a morning star can have talons, then a stare can grow roots.

If a chirp can be a burning candle, then a throat can be a crucifix.

If the sky can be holy water, then a branch can be a dirty scalpel.

If the shape of a bird can be the insides of a yawning mouth,

then a glance can be a siren.