sombrero hides her
eyes, shades her scars,
I note the coincidence,
centuries ago, we were
sacrificed in the fire, after
the blood of the bull gorged
our words, if you want to know
what kind of politics you're getting,
visit the censorship serape, where our
cinnamon hide turned ebony,

a shout from a censor
around the bullring brings
her attention to the pit, handlers
on each side of the bull, tugging on
nose ropes, stomping the earth with
their feet, shouting "Hiyasa, hiyasa" in
encouragement.  That word doesn't mean
a f***ing thing!

the bull slips its horn
free and wickedly hooks
its opponent, drawing blood,
horns engage again and again,
the pushing match is renewed,
a bull rarely gets injured or killed,
but words do, sombrero hides her
eyes, shades her scars,

pitting and betting is legal,
money changes hands, the bull
pricks its adversary, more hooks,
breaks free and runs, in triumph, the
bull led around the ring, horns tied with
bandanas tossed from the crowd, back
draped with the censorship serape,

sombrero hides her
eyes, shades her scars,
like the bull trainers, she
walks her words in the wet
sand to strengthen their muscles,
she makes her words push against
a truck tire tied to a tree, and then she
gives them a rubdown with grass that
softens the outline of the hard world, in
the shade of a lavender parachute tied to
the trees, like one bull against another, they
lock horns, but she never gets tired and she'll
never give up, her serape is a cape of uncensor
she waves freely in the air when she sees a bunch
of bull---her fans come from far and wide to watch
her words train around a pagan fire circle...

Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist