They froze Frieda in quicklime;
They did it in front of a mirror,
always inspired by the glass screen.
Screams, screams!
Everybody leans
in for a peek.
Quicklime, and her hands move fast;
motion freezes faster with skin-fizzing
bubbles.
Actions pass,
and her shape turns calcite-white
and solid still—
old fly on a window-sill.
Frieda came back after twenty days and thirty nights
(there are always more night than days
where she came from);
she played with flour and
found beauty on the fuzz of
dead bees.
Built up by feet, and
then the knees;
un-freezing its softening ease,
they sprayed her with saltwater
to wash off the disease. ∎
Words by Alexander Haveron-Jones. Art by Eloïse Fabre.
