Mandrake
Diego Rivera, 1939
by Jerry Hamby

The mandrake is surreal, defies gravity, suspended
above the chair, extension of the back post.
Smooth and leafless, the tree stretches
tapered limbs, like a naked woman spinning
with open arms. It is a nerve, a bundle
of fibers pulsing electricity, glowing
green against a dark background.
Legend has it that when torn
from the earth the mandrake turns
human and screams through its roots.
If such is the case, the woman
in the chair shows no sign.
She sits calmly, head tilted for the artist.
In her white gown and white veil, she is dressed
for fiesta, Day of the Dead. She sits beneath
a spider web, a single thread attached
to the veil where it rests on her arm. She holds
in her lap a calavera, a papier mâché skull,
cradles it against her breast,
nearly touching the leering smile
with long red fingernails, the yellow eye socket
alive and dreaming the mandrake.

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