I want to be priest of the Church of Frida.
Where the homilies will be given in poems,
the communion wafers will be pyramids of dark chocolate,
and the blood of Christ will always be
frothy
white
pulque.
The altar will be covered in orchids.
The stained glass paintings by Frida.
It will be a place where
women are priests,
men are dancers,
and the children praise God
with hand drums
and gourd rattles.
When the name of the Holy is uttered,
whether in exaltation
or in whispered longing,
She will be called
Tonantzín,
Coatlicue,
Xochiquetzal,
Toci.
Mother, Grandmother, Wild Woman, Serpent Goddess.
She will be Our Lady.
The Spirit of Frida will
haunt the halls,
make incense rise,
scent the sacristy with roses,
and cause bells to ring.
One Sunday a month a new Kahlo painting
will be left at the church doors with a note,
“Truth is Love.
~ Frida.”
All the Sundays in between
bottles of tequila
will appear
tied with red and green ribbon
nestled in piles of rose blossoms.
On each bottle will be a note,
“See that Our Lady gets some.
~ F.”
If you listen closely,
you will hear her singing.
Songs that last through the night.
Songs that could be coming from stars.
Songs that echo in your body
and leave you longing for God,
weeping
on your knees
in the dirt.
When you sleep
She reaches into your chest,
takes out your heart,
drums a song on its soft flesh
and replaces it before morning.
This aching for God will not stop.
She will keep you like this for years.
The only thing left to do
will be to
write,
paint,
dance.
Related: More ‘Viva Macondo’ entries
