Belt Buckles & Little Britches

The eyes half-shut, penitent-the way a boy should be

Approaching a bull-strong & chaste, afraid

Of nothing, except the inability to hold on, to ride

What has no intention of being ridden. Eight seconds,

Even for the little guys , my mother would tell me-

Though she was embarrassed to be there,

Corralled by half-drunken farmers, field hands,

And wives-all stockyard & cattle, screaming

Cowboy up! when another boy went down-

Embarrassed of my sisters & me, dressed, as we were,

In our finest Western wear, which wasn't much-

Jeans skirts & denim shirts, like little Calamity Janes,

Annie Oakleys, rifle-less-all of us in cheap straw hats

My mother abhorred & my father still claims

He knew nothing about. The rodeo-even in Butler,

Even in '85 & 6 under fairground lights alive

With the ticking of june bugs on glass, so many fireflies

Swimming above our heads like hopeless little stars-

For three nights of every summer was everything

To a town, weary of watching the little leaguers

Spelunk the loose change from under the bleachers,

Chasing foul balls through unpaved parking lots

Where even the weeds, in their thin lacquer of lime-dust

And gravel, seemed to be waiting for something-

A gossip of sparrows, the papery-thin wings of cicadas,

Rising like radio static from out of left centerfield,

Where the big, black & white 403 sign dangled limply,

Like a mile marker none of us would ever cross.

But when the bulls butted their heads against the bars

Of the chute, & the bell rang, & the gate swung open ...

After the tag teams of ropers had taken their calf

From-full-sprint-to-standstill-&, tying three of four

Legs in a half-hitch, held him there, teetering

Between two horses like a marionette, after the girls,

Cutting in & out, between the barrels, took off their hats,

Waving them in the air, & the bareback riders, rising

From the arena dirt, had brushed down their chaps ...

The crowd, exploding into catcalls & cavorting

In the stands, rose to full height, as if some goliath-

Badgering the air-just flat fucking fell; & the boy,

Standing over him now, had begun working a dull blade,

Like a bow, against the heat-hardened skin of his neck.