Self-Portrait with Red Bird

An immaculate woman stands at the mirror of the cafe bathroom,
holding her heart in place as if it were making its final escape.
She drops her hands to reveal a thin wound of raspberry sauce
down her white shirt. She stares at herself as if she is a Frida Kahlo:
spine a crumbling pillar under the body's imperceptible quake,
head three-quarter profiled in self-distrust.
Her husband rings from their table and asks what's taking so long.
She stares at herself as she answers must you know all:
not a question. Must it always be so visible (the real question)
her insides as art. She is reminded of their marriage bed the first morning,
the same rude red like a shout. She should have shouted then in disbelief
at the red seal on her life, still warm. She should shout now
at the score down her chest concaved with age. And deeper still:
a sternum scission ribcage opening to let the red bird out.

copyright 2005 Lucy Holt
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