Tuesday, October 30, 2012


There comes a time in the ring when the bull can’t flee

Where the bull feels safe and the matador doesn’t

Where the bull is sure and the matador isn’t

Where silence is the bull’s last refuge

And the matador’s too

When it’s time to charge if you’re the bull

And time to wave the red if you’re the man

Both lives proceed from here


Saturday, October 6, 2012

The Soldier

My father wasn’t anyone’s father 
or husband or friend.
He was a soldier.

My father waited rifle cocked
for enemies to storm the hill
or step out of  our bedrooms.
Once when I came to visit,
he cooked me dinner.
Eggplant parmesan 
with tomatoes
from his garden.

Food must be fresh.
He said this from a mist

of beer and smoke.

And then he winked 

as if we shared 
a secret knowledge.

But of course 
I barely knew him.