Bull-Headed
by Miriam Ruiz
Bull-headed: men banging my head against a chain-link fence,
bull shit: this hand of cards is a house of jokers and jack rabbits,
bull brooding, muscled body slammed into a livestock crush.
Bull wanders the desert, bellowing, searching for red –
bull’s eye: waves the big bad man in the shoulder pads, arching
bull horned hat, devil bones beckoning me over. To you, a charge, a trot, one in the same.
Bull fighting: in a cattle corral, impaled by spades and hearts,
bull in a china shop: I shatter. Calves thrashing, convulsing in the corrida;
bull blood, the reddest drape on dusty terrain. Eyes frenzied with fear.
Bull headed towards oasis. Silhouette of the antagonizer, emmeshed in gold.
Bull dozing: no more rodeo or radio announcer. Wouldn’t you love it to be
a Spanish cow? Persistent, fat tongue hanging from my square jaw. Dreaming:
Bull in green pasture, learning the lengua of wildflowers: yellow hatpins, Spanish needle,
oxeyes. Bull in the light of the setting sun. Here, where the only words I need to know
belong on my tongue; bull running towards the open expanse beyond expectation to fit
in a cage. The last lucha: the matador – the killer wears the sun in his suit. Stroking
my bull head, whispering: Til’ next time, amiga. Florida cracker
cow dressed in brown freckles. Taxonomic brands on my skin: firecracker, mamasita, mine.
Bull tongue: spicy and pressed into tortilla or stirred into stew. Horns adorning mantel.
Bull headed towards foreign mouths that once asked me to sew mine shut – encased
bull in a sausage. White men cheer when you’re angry, when your piqué piques their appetite.
I call bull, you call me cow. And we ride around and around,
bull rider: ride my ass and see what happens. Your twig body – tumbleweed.
Conquistador and the cowboy can’t keep up with the bachata or free roam of the scrub lands.
Bull headed: Picador instigator’s manhood smashed by a shake.
Bullshit is all I talk and all I know: toro and torero, cow and cowboy. You only have a name
because of the bull.