How the Bull Lost His Name
I like to imagine he walked with his eyes closed for so long
that when he finally saw
it was too late.
He was surrounded by shelves of china.
He was four aisles deep when he remembered
to look for a way out
By then he could feel the shelves quiver when he breathed-
almost as if his mere existence was enough
to threaten destruction.
He backed up slowly.
He bumped into something
and the next thing he heard was a crash.
I think he jumped forward in surprise
and knocked a vase to the floor.
The vase took down some cups when it fell.
The bull realized that the only option was to move forward.
His apologies were muffled
by the sound of shattering under his hooves.
By this point, perhaps he stopped and gave himself a pep talk.
Said aloud he that he could make it to the door
without destroying every single thing around him.
He closed his eyes, prepared to keep moving.
His sides were touching shelves
and the china was hanging on by a breath.
The bull opened his eyes and tentatively walked forward
waiting to hear the sound of something hitting the tile floor.
The sound did not disappoint.
It came without urging.
Every step
every breath
everything was breaking.
The bull wanted to blame the shop for being so small.
He stomped his hooves at the owner
for creating a door big enough for him to fit through.
He took time to yell at the china for being so fragile.
There is a moment though
right before the door.
He stops and tries to get the ringing out of his ears.
He lets the dust settle.
The sunlight through the window on the door
creates an elegant image.
It is the calm after the storm
before you can see the destruction.
Before you know enough to mourn fully.
He knows that soon the experts will come in
arms full of opinions of what happened and how to fix it.
The bull can already hear the line of well-wishers
that knocks on the shop door
carrying their well wishes and tears
unable to say anything to take away from this loss.
He walks forward with the taste of shame in his mouth.
The beauty that was once around him is a shell of the past.
How long did it take him to get to the door?
How many times did he stop and cry
when he saw how much hurt he caused?
Did he ever lower his head and inspect the pieces
to see if they could fit back together?
On the tips of his toes he pushes through the door
onto the cobblestone street.
His eyes, coated in dust
raw from tears
and damaged from the dark
cannot transition well enough to read the street signs.
I lose him here.
He is lost here.
His name that he had before he wandered into the shop is gone.
He becomes the bull that went into the China Shop
and is never heard of again.
The China Shop is still the China Shop.
It sighs in relief.
In grief.
It prepares to rebuild.
In the back corner
on the ground
hidden from view
is a bowl.
It is the only thing left untouched.
The bull doesn’t know where to go next
and yet he still runs on legs cut from shards
with eyes that refuse to guide him correctly.
He cannot shake the feeling that he is too much
for the space he is in.
The rest of his life he spends unable to answer
what the first to fall was.
Did a cup hit the ground first?
Maybe it was a plate.
It always matters what the first is.
He knows he was the last to break.
But that does not seem to matter nearly as much as it should.
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