Running With The Bulls

 
This is not a new concept for any woman
used to being out among them.
Papa watched from a balcony, waving his red beret,
sipping whiskey like orange juice at brunch,
but we who have travelled the streets of commerce,
done our 9 to 5 necessities, are never surprised.
Officially, women weren’t even allowed in Pamplona
until 1974, right around the time we could have
our own bank accounts, or purchase birth control
without a note from our husbands.
I have friends who carry the shame of abortion
like a midnight tattoo in a place only
lovers and morticians will see.
I have been in exam rooms with those bulls,
disguised in white jackets, gold watches,
clipboards to record our every remark.
I’ve been advised to avoid bread and pasta at the same meal,
while nicotine stains glowed in the forks of their hooves.
They run with cigarettes dangling from a ringed mouth
while my sisters and I try to keep up,
uteruses weighing us down, flapping
vaginal lips splitting the air like the fins of a ’57 Chevy,
ovaries thumping in time like maracas in the
land of our unforgiving bodies.

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(Featured image from Pexels)