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The Bullfight Sonnets
". . . but you might remember Whether I cheated my father for you and tamed the fire-breathing Brazen-hoofed bulls . . ." -- Euripides, Medea
1. In razzle dazzle gold brocade he flicks his hips and flaunts his cape before His Majesty, the Bull. The matador is teasing anger from his beast with tricks of red muleta, dancing hands, and love. The judges, cool, care most for grace, for elegance of form. From death's embrace they cut an ear or two, a tail, and give them to the hero. Novelists extol the crowd, the sun, the blood, the kill, the role of manhood challenged and found worthy. I am less enthralled. Instead, I wonder why cerebral critics desperately admire heroes who hold their shit when under fire.
2. The horned god, cloven-hoofed god, god who dies to fertilize the land: These bulls are raised for war, for fierce and noble spirit praised, admitted to the plaza, given right to charge a man in front of other men. In razzle dazzle gold he flicks his cape before you. Do you know you can't escape, that if you kill, they still won't let you win? This turf they chose for you; it isn't yours. It's just a stage. Enthusiasts devour each act and howl for more, more tails, more ears, more bulls, and if the matador is gored, there's more suspense. Safe behind the fence, they thrive on blood and killing elegance.
3. A poem should stand on footnotes, not on hooves. Unyielding as an uncracked code, a poem should float above the crowd, opaque, alone, till critics can elucidate its truths. Professors tease entendres from the words, insist no line can mean just what it says. To earn attention, poets acquiesce and write obscurely; sonnets fall unheard beyond the tiers of educated men. Admitted to the ring, a chance conferred to wield the cape, a woman undeterred by challenge yet is disconcerted when her new position calls for killing bulls. She hones her sword. She knows who makes the rules.
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