THE SPLIT BLOOD

I don’t want to see it!

Tell the moon to come,
I don’t want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.

I don’t want to see it!

The moon wide open,
mare of still clouds,
and the grey bullring of dream
with osiers in the barriers.

I don’t want to see it!
How the memory burns me.
Inform the jasmines
with their tiny whiteness!

I don’t want to see it!

The heifer of the ancient world
licked her saddened tongue
over a snout-full of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
part death, and part stone,
bellowed like two centuries
weary of pawing the ground.
No.
I don’t want to see it!

Ignacio climbs the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He was seeking the dawn,
and the dawn was not there.
He seeks his perfect profile
and sleep disorients him.
He was seeking his lovely body
and met his gushing blood.
Don’t ask me to look!
I don’t want to feel the flow
any more, its ebbing force:
the flow that illuminates
the front rows and spills
over the leather and corduroy
of the thirsty masses.
Who calls me to appear?
Don’t ask me to look!

His eyes did not shut
when he saw the horns nearby,
though the terrifying mothers
lifted up their heads.
And sweeping the herds
came a breeze of secret voices,
ranchers of the pale mist, calling
to the bulls of the sky.