Bullfight, Cancun
by Ellen Rittberg
in the circumference
of dying,
the bloodied bull
dies slowly if he dies at all.
blood-spackled,
the horns ready and incisive,
the hurtling bull is
mostly silent
but for its unknowing
lowing keening:
for where is the
instrument
of pain, destruction?
the bull is young
and only appears once
once an eternity.
and why does
the instrument not show itself?
horns hustling,
whittling space,
these spiral swords,
body beyond body
with one aim, to meet the pain-
source: is it the man
on hooded horse?
the bull pounds the padded horse
again and again,
blood flows
either from the bull or the horse,
who shudders
either from pain
or from not knowing
through its sheathed unseeing eye,
friend of man,
it stands patiently,
enduring.
is it man
stepping sidelong?
this matador, grinning,
assured composed
mocker of the bull,
stamping his foot,
making animal noises.
in the bullring
mens' attacks are
always quick
surreptitious, sharp
and the matador stamps
his foot, an aggrieved child
behind wind-worn cape
as large as a tortoise's carapace,
knife thrusts are delivered by men
who run feint dart
hide behind walls
taller than bull's horns
tougher than bulls' hides.
but not the matador,
he interposes himself
so late in the fight
between the dying
and the void
that it is no contest
with its skewed odds
the bull on the skewer.
the bull will not die,
men swarm around aroused
they finish the bull off,
plunging stubby knives
into his brain
rapid now.
in death, the bull
is husk, the thick tongue,
a parrot's
and the hulk
remote and silent,
as if the bull never lived
an inky mass
And we the onlookers,
turned dumb
turned to salt
turn from it.