[mignon ledgard]

Cheap Cockfight Arena

I am the only old hen in the cockfight ring. Iridescent plumes shine

on my auburn coat this sticky Sunday afternoon after the bullfight

at the Plaza de Acho. We have no band here, no stand nearby

to feast on anticuchos and picarones—Peruvian shish kebab and

deep fried dough with sweet syrup. In this ring under the bridge

men smoke cigars and drink chicha de jora, fermented purple corn.

Women chain smoke like bats and flaunt their cleavage to distract

the drunks. They do not need an abacus to figure out that half of

the participating owners will soon seek solace and forgetfulness, as

they welcome sweaty suntanned breasts and wasp waists heaving

with boisterous laughter that dims and deafens the bloody betting

game and the smell of rust rising in a dusty red haze over the ring.

These men, the losers who own these magnificent fighter breed of

cocks, invest time and work hard to train them for the thrill to see

their feathers colorize the air as they flash their shiny sharp steel

spurs full of intent, while aficionados in the audience cheer, throw

their hats and shout, “Bravo—Bravo—Olé!” The show is shockingly

short. The rush of adrenalin rises along with the feathers. Suddenly,

as the dust settles, the boisterous voices of the cheering crowd stop

eerily in unison. The top favorite cock has buried the beak. It will be

deplumed, cooked and consumed. The winner will be assessed: Is it

wounded, will it still be alive on their way back home? Will it wake up

the next morning? Will it fight again?


~ml