He lives at the bullring
where matadors face him.
The bull, his special friend,
if Death can be said to have friends,
does his bidding,
but must always be sacrificed.
The sweat-soaked matador
does the creature in with grace.
I have not done as well, misguided by pity,
leave the bull bleeding, alive.
No matter how I try to kill him,
Death comes for me,
his arms so large they reach over the ring
as if it were a child’s pool.
I gauge out his eyes,
white as hard-boiled eggs.
My brain peels like skin,
snows into my belly.
My burning back is hauled across a plateau
by huskies. Their piercing eyes
pierce me. I bleed into the snow of my belly,
into the nonsensical stars, the dogs’ barks.
Time opens me with a can opener,
and I smell as good as meat, umami.
I wish I could taste myself, but the feeling
escapes quick as daylight.
Behind the smart skin suit,
within the mists of flesh,
wrapped in muscle and nerve,
the phosphorescent bones glow,
ribs banded like Saturn’s rings,
the curved and craggy moon skull—
alive as coral, blessed white,
making the wine within.
When found, they are like petrified
wood. In the living body,
within gorgeous surfer arms,
broken and razzled by pain,
they mend quickly, so you can build,
plant and paint, make music
and meals, hold again your wife
and daughters between beams—
trees of the body, rooting us first
in flesh, then in earth.