not a poem
Cheap Cockfight Arena
I am the only old hen in the cockfight ring. Iridescent plumes shine
on my auburn coat this sticky Sunday afternoon after the bullfight
at the Plaza de Acho. We have no band here, no stand nearby
to feast on anticuchos and picarones—Peruvian shish kebab and
deep fried dough with sweet syrup. In this ring under the bridge
men smoke cigars and drink chicha de jora, fermented purple corn.
Women chain smoke like bats and flaunt their cleavage to distract
the drunks. They do not need an abacus to figure out that half of
the participating owners will soon seek solace and forgetfulness, as
they welcome sweaty suntanned breasts and wasp waists heaving
with boisterous laughter that dims and deafens the bloody betting
game and the smell of rust rising in a dusty red haze over the ring.
These men, the losers who own these magnificent fighter breed of
cocks, invest time and work hard to train them for the thrill to see
their feathers colorize the air as they flash their shiny sharp steel
spurs full of intent, while aficionados in the audience cheer, throw
their hats and shout, “Bravo—Bravo—Olé!” The show is shockingly
short. The rush of adrenalin rises along with the feathers. Suddenly,
as the dust settles, the boisterous voices of the cheering crowd stop
eerily in unison. The top favorite cock has buried the beak. It will be
deplumed, cooked and consumed. The winner will be assessed: Is it
wounded, will it still be alive on their way back home? Will it wake up
the next morning? Will it fight again?
~ml
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