Sarah Busse

Gauguin to his Pornographic Postcards

Little darlings, you are the only
faithful anymore, all I have
left, besides the mandolin. 
Sometimes one tires of music.

Tonight I hear you whispering-
small gossip of shoulders and fishnet.
How disappointing! What do you know 
but poses? You can not move, as the mind will.

It is the mind which leaps now,
declaring, I am a kiss, my nature
to suck the night's dark river,

to swallow. The drink is salt,
little friends, but not bitter.