Probably one of my best, technically speaking. Indeed, oftentimes the writing is better if I'm distant from it. :)
Matador
Now, your thick whip. The fat man
with the mustache raises a mud-lined
hand, calming the rattled voices.
No photos please. The feral crowd
notes that you are the one, a rare
breed; indeed, you are ambidextrous.
And when the battle begins, you dance
within one abstract tattoo, a sudden
story, a spinning, reckless ride across
ring sand -- the circles, and the spirals --
and how well you hold the earsplitting
crack inside. Then, soon, the tell-all
moment will come -- the killings,
the dust, the release of your two-sided
cry, your strange victory, your secret
noise. But this time, your left hand shifts.
One, startling, elusive twitch. Feeling
the blow, falling to the right, you cough,
clearly tasting something metallic,
and you realize that close up, creating
steam, the animal is breathing heat.
Drifting off, you smile, remembering
mother’s hand-wrapped, slightly salted,
butter-soft caramels, how one was never
enough.
C.A. MacConnell
