Brave Bull

I smash through the brush
in the Hindu Kush, splattering cold rainwater,
with its melting ice shards perched peacefully
on green leaves, where the snow leopard
and two-inch thorns of the acacia honey locust
lay hidden. I blow through and look back
like the toro bravo suffering
the bullfighter’s sword. The red cape drips
a blood river into muddy rivulets
cut by rain under monsoon moons.

I try to outrun the demon that drags me
through the snowcapped peaks of lost hope
but at my shoulder bone, the sting of the
demon’s blade strikes with a smile
like we were fast friends floating
on the azure of Miami’s Biscayne Bay,
but my prayers push him away
like holy air he cannot breathe. The demon
crashes into Ezekiel’s valley of dead bones,
stabbed by the horns of salvation.

Ezekiel won’t prophesy a rise
of these bones as their dust mixes
in the blood and mud of the rivulets’ oblivion.
The Holy Spirit shouts,
“ole’, ole’, ole’ toro bravo.”