MARGARET D. STETZ

The Two
       

locked in with art books as companions
images of women pressed in pages
self-contained in rooms I could not enter
heads turned away in Hopper's urban prison
no beckoning arms in Georgia's landscapes
no human face in Helen's abstracts
I brought my loneliness to Frida Kahlo
and asked to sit with The Two Fridas
a portrait of connection

she was, as I'd expected, gracious
stipulating only two conditions:
I must not touch the lifeline
the artery of coursing blood that
bound her selves together
across the clouded sky to beating hearts
and I must wear a costume as her figures do
(the one in European ornate flounces
the other in Tehuana dress)

the first demand was simple—
taking up a pencil
I drew a chair behind those hands outstretched
that clasp in understanding
a place where I could perch discreetly
and lay my palms atop their painted fingers
the second harder—
what should be my garment?
a robe and hood to signify
the years of solitary sailing
navigating academic shoals
a trail of letters dangling from my name?
or faded skirt and collared blouse
the remnants of an isolated girlhood
confined then, too, with
everyone away and laboring
a TV screen my guardian
a book my confidante?

there would be space for only one
of us of me
aged or young
to dress and occupy a seat, to join the Fridas
how could I choose?
I couldn’t

scratching out the chair
then spreading ink and
blotting out both Fridas
I emptied all the foreground
I cleared the threatening sky behind
I claimed the space as mine
I sketched an old professor and
an introverted child
together on a bench
encircled in each other's arms
as one

 

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