Silence

an ode to Buffalo Bill

Only the cruelty of the mirror knows the truth -
my prison of flesh where the only parole
comes with the loving lick of a blade
a lovesong written in layers of meat
slicing, suturing, searching
for the next woman to don and divest
their shed skins hanging,
mere costumes
my wardrobe, my abattoir.

In this cocoon, dark womb
tomb of transfigured beauty
emptiness enfolds, the way a mother should.

The only sounds that shatter the stillness
are dusty whispers, gossiping wings
and, in the shadows sits
the silence.