No Bulls-Hit Poem by Evan Histed

Pink rain fell on the matador's hat

As the bull she'd slain lay beneath her feet

Its mouth a gap its nostrils still flared

And its life and tearblood rushed from his splayed chest

No tears or words were used as slowly her blade was drawn from flesh

And when the spray of rain did cleanse the blood

The blade gleamed like cupid's cursed arrows

And the edges seemed sharper than its irony

She stood there with the bull's scarred heart lying out an offering

And slowly she turned claiming his death for her game

She is a matador and evasion is her game

The nearer came the bull the better fun for her

Till finally straight on he near caught her

Now he lays dead.