HOW

Today you are in the south of France-
dressed in a thin
white cotton shirt. Running from the bulls.
The eyes of your Virgin Mary tattoo-
your Guadalupe
peeking
ever so slightly over the blue bandana tied around your damp neck.
The reflection of the Camargue reveals the Angel
and Devil
whispering into her ears-
making your nails dig deeper with every stride.

Women with two braids each
throw wild flowers
onto the clay-red uneven cobblestone beneath your feet.
This is glory.

Turning wide
you cut sharply left- remembering
that you borrowed these shoes
from your brother. The one you had outed only months before.

You feel the brush of the wet nose from the bull
almost
touching you.

Barley breathing your hands grasp at a wooden barrier.
Heels kicked over airborne-
your fall in slow motion.

That is when you see it.
Nearly, 1. . .2. . .3. . .
nine other brown and white men stuffed together.

You decide to name one Philippe.

Protecting his favorite feature
Philippe covers his ears.
His elbows raised high. You manage a blink.
The landing is hard.

You are missing a shoe.

The bull continues to slam its horns into all that it hates.
Pieces splinter off.
Cracked hooves click louder than hail.

The cobblestone remains cool to your cheek,
but it smells like rusty pennies. Your nose wrinkles.

You don’t make it back to the bullring for the finale.
In a sea of chanting fans I am left wondering how.
How you really got the scar above your right eye.
You do not answer the call.

I spill all that I imagine.

-slm