Spencer Linford

The Bull

A flash of bone
Beyond the 
splintered wood.
A wall of flesh
Still as stone.
A bull in a cage
Of wooden beams
And lacquered rods,
Where no grass grows.
And beside that 
ton of fear,
a little girl
with moldy straw
Clenched tight
in her tiny fist.
A kind of soiled
barnyard confetti.
“Look at its horns!”
She points.
“I know.”
She knows,
The mother knows.
It’s time to leave
The living mount.
Let him roam
His forty square foot cage,
Already dead.

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