Bull Dancer of Crete

You come for
the plait of my hair,
my small lifted bosom,
still boyish hips,
flounced fallen skirt as
it greets the sand,
the trim of my thighs
and dark olive skin,
but I --
I have come for the bull.
And he has come for me.

You come for
the blood of my skull,
the rake of my back,
my torn broken breast,
the twisted wreck
of what's left
crushed in the dirt,
but I --
I have come for the bull.
And he has come for me.

I have come
like the scent of the sea
in my hair,
in my skin,
as it moves through me
buoyant, salt wet,
and raises its guest
high in its clasp,
above sand
above you
and for one moment fast
the quick black back
and horns of this creature
that hurtles toward me.

And you,
in your fat,
your stall,
and your grease-covered lips,
can call and curse,
and jaw and leer,
you, who leave when it's done
for home, arm in arm --

as I vault through the air
and my hands touch his back,
as my feet leave the ground
and dance on the sun,
as the earth is my sky
and the sky is my ground

-- you will want one thing.

Your will want to be me.

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