by George Dickerson
I know this bull;
He is an impudent bull;
I have fought this bull before.
I have seen his dark shoulders
Shadow the eyes of Gypsy girls
Whose lovers caroused to war.
I know this bull;
He is a crazed and careless bull:
He hungered for the soul of Garcia Lorca.
The furnace of this bull's breath
Snorts out ashes; his tongue
Is long as the Guadalquivir.
His great hooves trowel the earth
Until a matador's blood
Flowers the sand.
I know this bull;
This Miura's horns will hook and
Splinter into the satin groin of night.
Not Belmonte or great Joselito,
With their brave veronicas,
Could confuse this bull.
His glare is a surgeon's scalpel
In the harsh hot bullring
Of a reflector's light.
At Granada, at Madrid,
The corrida's tiers are empty;
In sol y sombra, no olés resound.
Even my picador has gone.
At exactly five in the afternoon,
I have thrown my banderillas down.
El Gallo knows you, Toro!
My faena is nearly done.
I'm ready, Toro. Hey! Toro! Come!
- Share this Poem:
