Poem of the Month
Thinking about the Bull
I imagine it to be male
and stupid. Blinded by sweat,
making the same charge towards
the same blood-red flag
kept at a distance by the matador
who goads. Picadors fire
Lilliputian arrows at leather skin
draped in folds, as if to stitch
a garment over anger.
Flies bother eyes that ooze goo,
tail swatting as it groans,
a heavyweight held by pillars.
Never quite feral enough to win.
Fond of the steaks thrown by keepers
who fatten this animal of festivals
and orgies—catharsis for
the young men who carry
the matador on their shoulders
through town—as what’s ordained
lies slain on sawdust, seeping.