Frida without Arms

stands behind the sky-blue satin armchair
in back of the abandoned brick building
where she and Diego now squat.

Brush clenched between her chipped teeth,
she has painted white palm leaves
and sand on the blue chair

that someone else had spray painted
before. She is poisoning herself with
oil paint, turpentine, and tap water.

He kills himself with fast food:
taquitos, beer, and pizza from 7-11,
with too much work. She will

lose their child here in Detroit.
Around her, blue and teal graffiti floats
against the pink wall like ghosts.

She remembers the animals and objects,
the dying fetus she had tied
to herself with ropes of blood

in the painting she had made
once before. This time her hearts
and letters float free. Her blood

is only Diet Coke and Gatorade.
Wearing black, she still holds all
the pain and longing she’s brought

with her again to this city
that froze her out years ago.