Margaret Atwood

Bull Song

For me there was no audience no brass music either, only wet dust, the cheers buzzing at me like flies, like flies roaring. I stood dizzied with sun and anger, neck muscle cut, blood falling from the gouged shoulder. Who brought me here to fight against walls and blankets and the gods with sinews of red and silver who flutter and evade? I turn, and my horns gore blackness. A mistake, to have shut myself in this cask skin, four legs thrust out like posts. I should have remained grass. The flies rise and settle. I exist, dragged, a bale of lump flesh. The gods are awarded the useless parts of my body. For them this finish, this death of mine is a game: not the fact or act but the grace with which they disguise it justifies them.

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