<p class="epil"><i>in the imagined voice of Frida Kahlo, painter of “The Broken Column,” Mexico, 1944</i></p>
<div class="line">Does it make you gasp to see this fissure</div>
<div class="line">in my naked torso, revealing pieces</div>
<div class="line">of my shattered spine? No surgeon’s scissor</div>
<div class="line">ever since that accident decreases</div>
<div class="line">constant pain, as if I have been nailed</div>
<div class="line">like this. My trunk is buckled up in straps—</div>
<div class="line">support that shortens every breath inhaled.</div>
<div class="line">Polio and accident have trapped</div>
<div class="line">me in a body crisscrossed by ravines.</div>
<div class="line">Across my stoic face a dozen tears</div>
<div class="line">are scattered pearls. I’ve made quite a scene;</div>
<div class="line">in art and life, I’ve done that all these years.</div>
<div class="line">Between these straps my breasts bulge out like eyes.</div>
<div class="line">Don’t I look a strange and sexual prize?</div>


Middle of Protesting

The Larger Half

You Will Remember Me

<p class="epil"><i>“Mother and Child (Nancy and Olivia),” a painting by Alice Neel, New York City, 1967</i></p>
<div class="line">Portrait painting, so long out of fashion,</div>
<div class="line">was all I did. Not by commission—I’d ask</div>
<div class="line">a friend whose face was lined by life and passion</div>
<div class="line">to sit. Then I’d distort a bit: a mask</div>
<div class="line">would simplify and heighten their emotion.</div>
<div class="line">This Harlem neighbor’s eyes are spelling fear</div>
<div class="line">as she holds her baby tightly with devotion</div>
<div class="line">and protection from who could appear</div>
<div class="line">through that open door. I told my story,</div>
<div class="line">how my husband stole our second daughter</div>
<div class="line">and fled the country. I told my friend the gory</div>
<div class="line">gist of losing our firstborn. I caught her</div>
<div class="line">terror as she sat, and watched it spread</div>
<div class="line">into her baby’s eyes, as fixed as dead.</div>


Love in the Time of COVID-19

They Tried to Cover Her Up

Mother and Child

<p class="epil"><i>a ghazal</i></p>
<div class="line">Mom banged her hairbrush down in a reprimand of love.</div>
<div class="line">“What an awful question! You don’t understand love.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">“Of course Dad loves you. How can you question that?</div>
<div class="line">He doesn’t have to blare it out, like a brass band of love.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">“You aren’t a princess to be coddled on a lap or praised</div>
<div class="line">without good reason. That’s a never-never land of love.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">“Your father works hard, with a great deal on his mind.</div>
<div class="line">Now don’t go causing trouble, making a demand of love.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">“Yes, I know he yells and sends you to your room a lot.</div>
<div class="line">But be glad he never hits you with the backhand of love.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">“Once, banished to your room, you drew a picture poem</div>
<div class="line">for him. I watched him beam at you with unplanned love.</div>
<div> </div>
<div class="line">“He said he’s proud of you. I’ve heard him tell you twice.”</div>
<div class="line">She brushed my hair, hard. “Barb, that’s a brand of love.”</div><figure class="wp-block-audio"><audio controls src="https://admin.rattle.com/audio/CraneLove.mp3"></audio></figure>

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June 5, 2020You Will Remember MeBarbara Lydecker Crane

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June 5, 2020You Will Remember MeBarbara Lydecker Crane

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