JUST STANDING THERE WATCHING



                        Not seeing, nor sensing that obsidian eye, glitter-
                        flecked, unflickering, the white mouse stares unaware
                        at you, the camera I, another vestal sacrifice.
                        Hulked behind, Bufo, grumped in stone, masked
executioner, black bunkles athwart, zagged, whelky.
Soundtrack vibrato wells to pulse, stabs of brass, glass.
The kids gasp, fidget on edge of cruelty’s thrill,
squeal at tongue’s dart, wrap around, slick suction.
Blur, white fur, gobbed; shuttered mouse staring out,
squeakless.  Kids blurt, slurp; some screw disgust.
Bloat of gills like gagging, gulp, smug belch.  Tiny,
snittering mouseface shrinking, stark bewildered,
disembodied, save sequin eyes still watching you.


Spurred to stand fast, braced, nostrils a-quiver,
arched as a windbreak beaten by maddening squalls,
the horse is blinded, but smells blood, bull, rage.
Earth quakes, sand clots with rosettes of blood.
The picadors dig in and twist the black brute’s back,
burying lanceheads in the ribbons of torqued muscle.
The lowered bullhead snorts, rams against your flank.
Horns unsawn rip at your padding swelling scarlet.
Like slaves in the Colosseum, faces badged with blood
to excite the beast, you stand the jeers of diehards,
tourists hooting for the matador’s coral pink ears,
Whistle derision to split your skull, pierce your heart.
Back two centuries of shambles in this corrida,
you were curbed to stand uncaparisoned, sure-hoofed,
disembowelling for the picadors to gouge close in.
You too stand witness to your own humbling.


Seated by the platter of squabs and sheafs of feathers,
you ring the dove’s head between finger and thumb,
soft, downy wings held against warm, snow-white body.
Taking your knife, you make a nick in its throat.
Dribbles of blood trickle into the porcelain bowl.
The fledgling tenses, cocks its head, strains
to fasten its scratching claws to your wrist.
No matter its blood congeals the sealing wound.
You’re so incisive with your familiar blade,
twisting the sharp point in the slit, remorseless.
Inexplicably, the dove utters no sound, cries not.
Dumb with innocence, trust or debility, it gazes on
with drowsy solemnity at its own inevitable ebbing.


Alicia, I fear too much your Habsburg jaw.

                                                    
                                                          Michael Small
August 23-September 25, 2003

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