Dorothy Hale Captures Manhattan’s Attention For a Moment

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

She lives forever in her fall or on

The pavement pressed in velvet black around

Her.  Yellow roses do not make a dawn,

But then she did not want that.  On the ground

The morning light will come again but not

For her.  She leapt in longing for the night,

That longest night.  The asphalt has not caught

Her oval face, so no destruction, blight

Of blood has bashed her into loving death.

The worst that happens to her is that paint

Has trapped in her fameless fame.  The breath

Of Kahlo’s painting swipes life’s final taint.

  So trapped in facial beauty she at last

    Cannot escape, she leaves New York aghast.