The "extra" girls
have gone home,
though it took a while
for them to pull away in blue car, red car,
and they called goodbye to my girl for ages.
She stood at the back window of her bedroom
and said, "Get out of my yard!"
The Girl will have a meal tonight
with her father,
something meaty (ribs?).
I wish I could explain to him
that her reluctance to schedule him in
is nothing personal,
but that's not my job.
I have been letting go,
no longer buffer,
to the new role
I should have taken on
eight years ago?
No, no, it shifts
as child ages
and I age
and we redefine
the shards of us.
Today I am bull,
skin glossy and black,
the gloss fades
as I kick up arena dust.
I feel like charging down the matador
who pricks my hide with a barbed harpoon,
though when I look up bullfighting terminology,
I see that bulls now wear Velcro pads on their backs,
and bullfighters use Velcro tipped staffs
instead of swords.
When I was 5, my family went to Spain on vacation
(not that far since we were stationed near Paris),
and we attended a bullfight.
The sight of the bull running, frantic with pain,
the barbed harpoons waving from his hide,
so bright, each color signifying how much closer
the bull was to death,
I was horrified. I rooted for the bull,
wanted to hide my face in my hands
but couldn't look away.
I suppose if I am the bull,
I'm still rooting for the bull.
Silly woman. I am my own matador.
This metaphor fails to work,
but that's all right.