Chicano Poet

Tuesday, January 03, 2012

The Bullfight

Taken to a bullfight as a child
does not define me

climbing that steep pyramid
whose history doomed us all

the train puffing smoke
in valleys and mountains

broke down at the border
like everything else

still I have blood on my hands
the toreador and his dance

the matador and his sword
plunged into the back of my neck

I am down on my knees
blood gurgling from my nostrils

it amazes me I can get up
to write this

2 Comments:

At 10:18 AM, Blogger ERNEST HOGAN said...

¬°Ole!

 
At 1:27 PM, Blogger RC said...

Thanks, Ernest.

 

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