The Matador handed me the bull’s severed ear,
a trophy of his victory and the bull’s predictable defeat.
He was called El Tiempo Grande.
They’d saved the biggest for last.

His ear filled my hand.
I raised it to the sky and to the crowd
saluting El Toro’s rage and defeat
at the hands of Pablo Hermoso de Mendoza.

Pressing he bull’s ear to my own, I heard:
       the morning of his birth
       the pastures of Southern Mexico
       the blood as it seeped into the ground
       the last glimpse of the sun
       the tears as they cut his throat

As they dragged his carcass out of Plaza de Toros,
I saluted him again,
he who symbolized the burden of rage
and the insanity of being born a male.