Her red hands release each stained dove
skyward. Red petals spill from the sky,
past laundered black satin dresses that weep.
Death is her wife & I the mistress.
I call her Concepción, as in Immaculate
Conception. I call her Conchita, as in concha,
so I kneel to taste the ocean. Perfect small cakes,
her breasts rise below her suit of lights that exposes
nothing. A scar on the cheek & chest where I press
my fingertip to the quickening of pulse.
A grace carries from our bed into the ring.
I as her mistress know her as nothing timid.
Her red mouth beckons the bull. She fights on horseback &
lunges only once back on ground. Her last fight,
I wear my best dress as though attending a funeral
with a half veil. The crowds’ hands rise to make
the cross: the crown, the heart, left, right &
a kiss of fingers to pursed mouth. She caresses
the bull as he charges, a slow tango. She tempts
death & leaves me, her mistress in the stands,
silk handkerchief between my teeth.