Day 30: Matador

They dropped between us

with the jar of a bar of soap

into the morning’s freshest cup of coffee

and hissed in alkaline bubbles

bringing with it all our unspoken (now spoken)

froth slopping over the sides.


The crowds slurp it in and savour

the red crescents that form in alabaster skin

and the agonised grunting

of hair roots pulled taut;


Bitch fights are a very masculine thing

let the red flag fall between us

bull against bull –

I meant, bull against



because in the end the matadors

are the men who watch and side.


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