Read the poem "Sonnet in Primary Colors” by Rita Dove.This is for the woman with one black wingperched over her eyes: lovely Frida, erectamong parrots, in the stern petticoats of the peasant,who painted herself a present—wildflowers entwining the plaster corsether spine resides in, that flaming pillar—this priestess in the romance of mirrors.Each night she lay down in pain and roseto the celluloid butterflies of her Beloved Dead,Lenin and Marx and Stalin arrayed at the footstead.And rose to her easel, the hundred dogs pantinglike children along the graveled walks of the garden, Diego’slove a skull in the circular windowof the thumbprint searing her immutable brow.