Eileen Moeller
lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She has an M.A. in Creative Writing from Syracuse University and has taught college writing for many years. She also works for Arts in Education as a teaching and performing artist.
Her poems have appeared in The Comstock Review, Feminist Studies, Paterson Literary Review, Blue Fifth Review, and Philadelphia Stories, and in a variety of anthologies. A website manuscript, Body in Transit, appears online and she also maintains a blog.
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Frida Holds A White Rabbit
After the photograph: “Frida Kahlo With A White Rabbit,
Blue House, Coyoacan, Mexico City” 1949 by Hector Garcia
like a baby. She tries to smile
for the camera, and cradles un conejo blanco,
como un bebe, in her arms,
the white rabbit of her longing
like the infant she never carried to term,
the fat white conejo of infidelity,
little effigy of Diego, its flat contented face
so much like his: the barren moonscape of his apology.
She looks tired.
She rests her head on her hand,
her mouth a small horizon in the shadows
She is thinking about the engorged conejo of his politics
the fuzzy impersonality of his vision,
the little female comrades in his murals.
Where is her anger? Does it leap through the agave now
swift as the jackrabbit of Tehuantepec? Does it burn in the desert?
No because el fuego de Frida’s
resentment is gone for good.
No more galloping around here,
keeping up with the horses.
No more bites on the cheek
for you, you selfish rider!
Frida’s just plain worn out.
She’s taken el conejo back,
and she’s holding him like the baby he is.
Frida squeezes him so close
he’s short of breath.
Smile for the camera, Frida. Smile,
as two crows fly above your eyes.
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