Girl Carrying Bull, by Vladimir Fokanov
I carry the bull on my shoulders.
Some days the weight is impossible:
its skull bores into my collar,
sweat pools under my arms,
and trickles around my breasts.
This is the price I pay for being
headstrong and outspoken.
My first words: not yes or please,
but no, my way, never.
I want, I want…
Other days, delight burns
in my legs, my arms ache
as I hoist this beast through
the void, across rivers
and sandbars, over snowcapped
mountains, and through galaxies.
My muscles, its muscles
burdened and buoyed by gravity.
And always the trembling
of my body,
its body, our bodies
on the brink—
I sigh, it grunts.
I smile, it breathes.
Only when we reach a clearing,
do we turn to one another
in some gesture of self-recognition,
do I dare whisper:
Yes, sweet lovely creature
we will make it though.
