Frida Kahlo's Corset

It's a garden of stars.
A screaming skull.
Hammer and sickle.
It locks her in.

Two of her paint
it, mirror angled
beneath her breasts.
She lies flat, rests.

It's a plaster vase
I arrange the stem
of myself in; it drinks
sweat, my sins.

There's no escape
in its hollow trunk,
a spineless tree,
staring out at sky.