Frida at Henry Ford Hospital

by Terri Brown-Davidson

Henry Ford Hospital. Frida Kahlo. 1932.

A shy sparrow tucked into its mud hole,
Never revealing its secret egg,
I wanted my empty-nest uterus to sprout
Flowers, lascivious fruit. But my cracked shell
Spilled out bones and blood, amniotic fluid,
And Señor I-Don’t-Give-a-Fuck
Stitched my lips together
To keep me from hemorrhaging out
Into the dark earth-crawl where she--
Speechless and mummy-wrapped--resides.
Even dead, she must have wanted a mouth
Pursed into a womb-silent whistle
To give me a postpartum kiss,
Besmirch my unpainted cheek.
Some mothers experience phantom-limb syndrome
After the baby is white-towel-entombed,
Her face tucked down until the muck is shoveled
Over her gleaming, brass-handled casket
Because no one wants the bereaved mother to remember
Her dead-hearted dirt baby.

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Terri Brown-Davidson's first book of poetry, The Carrington Monologues, was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in hundreds of journals, including Triquarterly, Able Muse, Denver Quarterly, Puerto del Sol, and others.