The Matador
His scent was that of death foretold
And I had never smelled death before
A potent mix of wet, wily mud and metal
and chalky embers of burning hope.
His eyes — red-rimmed with deriding laughter
And I had never seen color before
Dissolving swirls of sun-glinted hazel
into crimson pools of lust in hoard.
His moves— slow, tense, soul-baring
And I had never known dance before
Breaking and entering into a muslin mind
His hunger reeling in flesh-hollows.
The lights — eclipsed crescents of contingency
And I had never been on stage before
Walled in a coalesced ring of human will
To strip away my sable hide to gore.
The end — snug, moist, forgiving
And I had never felt the texture of life before
My bulk of weariness steeled into earth
A wet tongue lashing vestiges of time in folds.
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