Bravo

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

Bravo

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.