Bill Cody

Buffalo Bill killed four thousand buffalo. 

In the winter, the sky is white like their skulls

piled up outside my window,

trees sliced up with their horns.

 

When Bill pulled the trigger,

His finger curled with the confidence

That he would hit a heart beneath the sternum

That it was only lead and muscle. 

 

Did he falter if he caught the animal’s eye?

Were his blue eyes closed to the snow,

Leather legs shaken over the

Warmth of another 

his horse’s body.