I do not know why you moved to this side
long ago, before your city became a **** zone
maybe you knew something I did not
you knew many things I did not, which I discovered
when you politely corrected my grammar
though it was my native tongue,
and one you learned reading our newspapers,
watching our television
listening, more carefully than most,
to what the gringos said
you told me tales of the arena,
usually after dinner, on your back porch
when the shadow of the mountain covered our houses
like a quiet blanket, blocking out the blistering heat
of the desert day
you would offer me a soda, always
before my questions began
your civility was strange to me at first,
the adults in my family barked and cackled
your words rolled out like sweet liquid
and left me wanting more
I never asked why you had no woman,
you were as handsome as any man I knew
later, years later, years of name calling later
I guess I understood, maybe
that was why you left your home
though the blind blood of bigotry
ran freely on both sides of the Rio Grande
and I knew you to be courageous
for when you told me the stories,
as the desert sky became violet and cool,
and the few cicadas began their song,
you boasted not of your dangerous dance
in the packed dirt of the ring,
but of the art it took to silence the beast
the lost look in its red *** eyes
and the silent sadness you felt
as the crowd cheered
another beautiful death