there are three things in this image:
1 a bull, still, statue, eyes like Plouton’s gaping wait.
2 the hands, weighting down their arms, gulping down their vengeance, veined and strong and stiff.
3 a woman. let’s say you can see her face.
you can see whatever face you want.
there is a halt and falter in one hand against the black bullhide.
whose fault? it asks as they halter her against the white bullhorn.
but ‘fault’ is all just bullshit after all.
the bullhooves will beat whatever face you want
into whatever face you want, whatever place you want.
they strip her body off the bullside and stomach
and toss her name into a spring.
how nice.