Poem 3

   Quite a few years ago, I watched a documentary on t.v. about bullfighting. In it, they showed film clips from several actual fights. In one of them, things go terribly wrong for the bullfighter, there is some kind of a miscue and he is horribly mauled. In the midst of being treated like a ragdoll by the bull, however, for the briefest of moments the bullfighter ends up standing there, straight up and down. How could this be, until I looked a little closer and realized that he was actually suspended on one of the bulls horns, which had pierced his back and come out through his stomach. For me, this was a hard image to shake and eventually became the following published poem.




Dreaming of Madrid


He was a Pedro
or a Juan or a

The Death of the Bullfighter--Clave Antoni

Manuel who stood straight up
suddenly, en la corrida,
impaled on his final
mistake.
In the middle of
the spectacle turned
mayhem, a bullfighter
is tossed toward the sun
then trampled, but then
stands straight up
for a moment, like he
has changed his mind,
has chosen a profession far removed
from this, is waiting for
the bus in Madrid, goes to
work each day and knows
he will return home again.
Perhaps this is the dream he has
as the suit of lights
turns off, he looks down
sees the hard tip of the bull
sprouting from between his
own muscle and bone, knowing
it has ended this way and that
this is the last time it will
end this way


and the bull, looking up through the heart
of the man, knowing no other way
it could have ended.