To be as free as Frida’s tango

is to be alive—I’m sure.

Or to be more than alive,

so alive every cell is sticky with it,

so full they just can’t take it.

To be as unashamedly sensual,

my hands in the creases of her bare back,

my lips tracing the outline of her ear.

Her!

I could die of embarrassment

for even writing it.

But why is that?

When the brush stroke of a hand over skin

may just be the first art,

that which made us whole.

I have known this dance

since before I knew it,

but never until now had I wanted to let it out—

to clasp it skin and material—

and then rip it from my body

in a gesture so strong

I could split in two,

for a moment.

To be improvised in red,

traced with the tip of a finger,

to circle a room

and laugh!

Because at last

I am the creatura,

the raw wild breathing beneath.

For to be Frida’s tango,

is to be free

from my own permission,

to remember what cries

as I dance into another

in the crowded heat

of what we’re not supposed to feel.

 
Frida, Tango scene

Author: Anthea van den Bergh

Editor: Nicole Cameron

Image: Jody Frost/Flickr