a day after my uncle is trampled upon by mad buffaloes,
the bulls have their brains spilling over.
a cousin watches the other climb up the jumbal tree.
(bulls in the yard go crazy this time of the year),
erect penises reddening before my aunt’s jumbal fruit has shed its crimsonness,
preparing my cousins and i for the seasonal beating from an aunt with whom my grandmother’s children no longer speak.
bulls lick her bare bottom threatening– her thoughts won’t let go of memories, memories stuck in the inner walls of a vagina that has never known its name. these days she looks at her cousins with their daughters; ” your father has been in this body” sits at the tip of her tongue carrying the after-sourness of an unripened kiwi bite.
how does one go up a jumbal tree from the insides of a bull, if buffaloes refuse to take their tembes?