IN THE DAWN
The young man hates the owner of the estancia.
He has always hated the owner, hated the way
that man felt free to sit at the small,
carved table at night viewing his fields,
the grassy hills beyond. He would drink chilled
sherry and eat tapas—shrimp and almonds—
stare at the sky, the stars even,
as if he owned them, every one.
The news comes—
the poet shot dead in the dawn of Grenada.
Who can say what happens to the patrón.
His prize bull sizzles on the spit. Understand,
not one of these workers has ever tasted beef.
A whole life lived right here—nothing
but cold soup and bread. Tonight, a jug
of red wine before they tear apart
the delirious flesh, the greasy
and searing flesh of that old fighter.
The young man eats, then bends
over blind with pain—
a stabbing from inside his belly—the bull
again incarnate. Through the eyes
of the bull the man sees only dark
and dense muscle. He knows his own
stool—if he lives until morning—
will be stained with blood.
As that great head twists
and turns within him, those horns
must rip fresh wounds right
through the man, each hole
a sharp pinpoint of light,
a new star.
c a t h e r i n e h a m m o n d
t e m p e, a r i z o n a
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