Frida Calls the Buses Flimsy

The iron handrail enters through her hip and drowns out her sex.
A roll in the wreck tears off her dress. As sirens blow,
the iron grows soft as a vein, ready to ease out.
A witness watches his vomit swell against the curb. He cannot leave
the girl impaled, slips the rail from her feathery abdomen. She feels the ragged hymen
flush in a basin of blood, cracked bones settle into pavement, and brushes the wound
with her middle finger. Her first self-portrait.