My Birth

Painting by Frida Kahlo 1932

By Amy R. Babcock

Originally written in college on March 14, 2006. This poetic monologue is my interpretation of her painting.

Like a shroud,

the sheet hides her innocence from view.

Her arms are captive within.

She cannot hold me.

Her face is hidden from all

under the white cotton.

She pushes me forth and my face,

so ugly on this twisted neck,

looks skyward.

Yet, even the virgin cannot look down on my arrival and smile.

My birth, not blessed.

My mother, undressed,

under duress.

The cruelty of her legs

open to the world like those of a whore.

The purity of barren walls,

perfect sheets,

only the one under the blood is a mess.

Wrinkles and imperfection

where I am to lay my tiny head.

There is no one there,

just my mother and me,

a pink, frilly pillow,

and the grey face of the heavens.

Pain follows me into this world.

A twisted, bloody body

seems to be my destiny from the beginning.

Does anyone know who I really am?

I do not know who I am.

Confusion and anguish are my only real friends.

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