to them, of pleasure

Irina Rusanova, C’20

i. to Sappho

what could be more

[         ] beautiful

than blossoms

rubbing [         ]

in the breeze

ii. to Rimbaud 

Rest your mind on this lonesome shoulder, cease to be skeletal, to wonder, wander, attaché of copulation. Ah, begotten one, sever that arm, that finger dripping with satisfaction. Your eyes bear wreaths of gold. Your body suffers contusions. I’ve been robbed. What bliss!

iii. to Tsvetaeva 

In letters gold, in elderberry branches,

Comes message brought by avalanches. 

And soon I—who lay low here—

Will fade and hold you, dear. 

You circle arms, touch eyelid;

I’ve not met lips so morbid!

—How deep they are, in crimson hue!—

I—stamping, kiss thick brows adieu.  

Now, what I long for—lashes,

That stream from eyes: dark sashes… 

The pages crease, my lips lock tight: 

“You’ve touched so many, am I right?” 

– 30 September 2020 

iv. of me 

their loves were broad

and interspersed;

they cared for others deeply.

though I of pleasure have to say: 

[quite bluntly] 

I don’t need it!~ 

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