There is a bull here in the olive groves

Here, a toreador, blindfold and crown.



Darkness aimed toward sky

                 awash with bullets

Butterflies    bead and break   apart

A body falls like fruit from a tree

  split     and nectar spilt

        by hummingbird rushes



This is what satisfies me still

     “Ole” the brush shouts

           “Ole” the skin whispers



I imagine the gunshots in you

          an explosion of roses churning

    blooming red

multi-layered and spiraled

                          a flowering gut surrounded

  by invisible men



Twinned images

                        my hands hover at your waist

                    the taste of olives on my tongue



Consummate or not, our bodies are one

even after the little death

even after  I have forgotten you.



Now  I am the sex and death of you

   but in your death

all I have is the shock of you.



Locusts echo in my skull

        spreading news of my illness.



Here the olive becomes the nipple  erect

the basket of bread broken by war

        lengueta de la mariposa

                 la langue du papillion

tasting the nectar

        chasing the swallows tail



You are my catastrophe

Previously featured in Neologism Poetry Journal