Rain has splattered Arles for three days and nights.
Fed up with drunken quarrels, Gauguin slinks
out for the last time, refusing to fight
as Vincent stalks him down Place Lamartine
screaming, “Inca! Black lion! Murderer!”
Stumbling back to the Yellow House, he downs
all the absinthe, curses Theo’s letter,
glares at the blurry razor, grabs it, groans
and slices off his ear. Back on dark street,
he staggers to that whorehouse, pounds thick door,
slurs for the cleaning girl Gaby. She greets
him, then gasps. He thrusts his gift of wet gore
tight in her hand. “In remembrance of me,”
he growls. She faints. He whirls, weaves, wails, and leaves.
Roger Armbrust
December 14, 2016
