Game of Beast and Man
………....
On act two, my handkerchief dropped down on
my weakening feet, escaping the wipe of tears
from my sullen lids: by this time children
too young to make their own milk burst into
deafening cheers shouting for more blood…
the matador in graceful sways of his cape derailed
his prey again---a wounded bull pierced by stabs
on the neck and shoulders: but this was not enough.
Wincing in pain, the sword dug into its lungs
as the shock in my throat creaked like dried
sandpaper raking with the quivering thud of an
exhausted animal roused into a public arena for a play,
disturbed, confused… and the fiesta music played with
such passion of slaughter until the stag rolled on
the floor, crowned with spears on the head, and
finally unto its heart. I could not breathe in the
sound of victory swaggering women’s ruffled
skirts and male hats flipping off on an aching sky.
Before the dying beast was dragged back into its
den and the bullfighter bowed to the echoing
adulation of the crowd smelling of death and glory,
I run out, dazed---finding solace from shelling some
pesetas for a laced fan so delicate in the elegance
of its design--- my cheeks wanting to catch a wisp of fresh air.
The game of bull and man tasted sour on my pagan tongue.
………..
* my first bullfight experience in Madrid, Spain
For Joe Flach’s Contest Contest
by nette onclaud
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