Will they write of my home? (part 1)

When I am dead?
Will they even come?
Will they write of my home?
The same way one spoke of Frida Kahlo?
Of her home in Mexico City
and the gathering of her image

I; no heroine, salvation
undecided
rocks, not even,
pebble, sand or silt, cleansed.
Would they come?
Any of them? These four women
Would they write of my home?
If I were dead?

The whore with
Chagall; upright, mostly
“Freedom” and at long last
“Constraints”
The nerve
This night
Courage, at long last
the place we ventured
The room where
your hand rested;
Cells?

On the small of my back
as we scoffed at (ghost)
vases and such
“too ornate”
the pieces women kept
in their homes
centuries
ago. And now, it all
rests with me.

Would they come? Write of my home?
The women (you) and the pieces
stories, myself
buried in the backyard
Plastered and painted over?
The affairs
Picasso as bull (me)
romanticized. "Surrealists
played lots of games" There
are but twenty-six
questions.

Exclaim! Tucked in the
back of their pockets
in their back pockets
Beautiful
but not precious.
Be clear in that distinction.

Ache

On the rare day I forget you exist,
I breathe. I
can breathe.
Like that time I
shared with you the origin of the word
nightmare. The woman, beautiful,
and naïve in her own precious way,
drifts quietly to sleep
unaware, of the stallion
the beast on its way to her bedside.
Upon arrival, the Incubus, passenger
of said horse, dismounts, and
following the undressing of the beautiful
woman, begins at once to consume her
skin
tissue
heart
lungs
spleen
brain
bone
Rape, cerebral.
Dreams interrupted, battered
by the gremlin on her chest,
crushing innards,
breaking ribs
and suckling.
Yet and still, she readies herself
night after night
with blush colored rouge
and bright pink lips.