by Taylor Cornelius

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.