*outside San Diego, 1868
Sanchez, too, hid his cheer
of death, much like Maria Garibaldi,
his greatest fan, who- after each
kill- would give him a flower
he could never pronounce. She once spoke
of her grandmother's mirror, and its numbness
she would inhabit. When gazing within
she would fear the mirrored hallway
without the refracted Maria's bedroom.
Always, she was uncertain of an entering
spirit, a thing she could not resist
prying into. When, at last, a thing entered
it was not what Maria had feared. It strode
strongly into her bedroom, circled a few times,
and onto her bed, and pried backward into both
Marias' spaces. This was, then,
where Sanchez was when Maria smiled,
again, from the grandstand. The crowd
became circular motions. The bull
is released. Sanchez too.
