He sat in a corner of the crowded room,
a glass of tinto within reach
waiting for the dancer’s entrance.
The guitars began the introduction to soleares,
joined by the palmero adding palmas to the
unique twelve beat phrases.
The haunting familiarity brought back memories
of his victories in the bullring and the
parties afterwards, guitars, singers and dancers,
the duende lasting until sunrise.
It seemed like yesterday when
on that fateful Sunday in Spain’s oldest bullring
he led the procession,
the band playing the bullfighter’s song,
La Virgen de la Macarena .
And after he made the traditional bow
to the dignitaries and to the crowd
was announced as El Matador de las Veces,
‘Matador of the Times’.
The bull that day was a large, roaring, cannon of strength.
The fight was long,
and when it came time for the final short sword thrust
he re-lived the moment as it found its mark
giving the Brave One a swift death.
In its final gesture
the bull fell towards him,
one of its horns ripping into his upper body.
The rustle of a gown sweeping across the stage
brought him back to the present.
Slowly, the music followed the dancer’s movements,
her heels responding first with a tremor,
a quiver, building to vibrations
that entered his body waking latent passion.
Then in a transfer of energy, of power,
he sensed her touch, one of healing.
He felt her reaching out to him, sharing his suffering,
soothing his pain.
And in that crowded room
his tears rendered him whole, once more.
***
No comments:
Post a Comment