an ode to buffalo bill

they think our joy
must always be stolen. 
tell me you have not dug a hole
in the bottom of your sickness
to capture a scream?
i want to hold a little funeral
for what they say we are. 
for their imaginations
in which we are running in the night,
hunting their skin. instead
we hunt our own flesh. 
i will often look in a mirror
& ask, "where am i?"
oh sweet monster, let's
go where there are no more stories.
where we use sewing machines
to piece back together
the skies they've taken from us.
a broken window. shattered teeth. 
you can tell me 
all the dreams you have
for your body. the silks 
& the furs. i will tell you mine.
they are less extravagant.
i just want to walk on the roof
& sprout feathers.
i have always admired herons 
for their ability to observe.
we can escape if we start
running now. isn't that 
what we have in common?
we're always trying to escape 
from someone.