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151 DIANE KENDIG On Frida Kahlo’s Diego on My Mind The window square whitens and swallows its dark stars, the weeping woman goes weeping along the river banks Shall she not find comfort in the sun? At night, she holds his pillow to her ribs and rubs. (Memory, that preposterous and unreliable refuge of things once loved and taken for granted.) But how to speak to a man who does not see you, who sees ogres, satyrs, perhaps the depth of hell itself? He does not look up into the ever-changing expanse of morning. Your health is bound to be affected if, day after day, you say the opposite of what you mean. Love, chimed the saints and angels. Hate, shrieked the gun-metal princess. Marriage could be the caption. What is there to know? Some shape of beauty moves away the pall. ...

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