watching a bull beed to death in bilbao

the bull, the bull is bleeding to death, and no one told me

it would be like this. no one warned me that

the sun would be too hot, the locals unfriendly, the world

was never meant to be my oyster

after all. the bull

fought well. fought bravely, but why

did it have to be made to fight in the first place? ethics,

and politics, and cultural relativism, sure, but

i cannot watch the innocent bleed in any language.

the bull is dying and i am nervous for the bull, nervous for myself, nervous

to navigate the city and make it back by bedtime and still

find new reasons to keep going, the train stations always cold, the men

always leering, as if you didn’t ask the universe

to please just let you die alone. i watch the bull

even as i want to look away, because what can i do now

but witness? what can i do now but grant him

the one thing i have ever been able to grant anything,

which is to bear it, and then turn it into song?

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happy reading, and as always — love you! mean it!!! bye!!!!!

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