just like on the radio

The colors in Gauguin’s paintings aren’t real.

They are one hour behind 

and a day ahead.

Lately I’ve been dreaming of France

for no other reason 

than the importance of troubadours 

and a yé-yé girl named Joyce

and a red-headed wet nurse with a rose in her chignon. 

Kittens and bats bristle like a gymnast in heels. 

Strings and flutes, Kodachrome, 

write a poem like Mac Low. 

July is no time for trauma. 

After the bullfight in Bayonne 

she taught me the French word for fork.  

My corset broke open. 

The white light was amazing.

Like milk siblings. 

Like the savior of teeth whence the candy flies.

Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. Recent publications include Hobart, Plague Circus Press, The Disappointed Housewife, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Gorko Gazette, and elsewhere. He is the author of the poetry collections Nighttime Logic and Venus at the Arms Fair. He is a poetry editor at Blood+Honey.