Dear Lon Chaney

I, too, grew up among the deaf. I learned to use my hands

for understanding, to change my face to exaggerate emotions.

 

Sometimes I used glue or wires. Sometimes I used putty.

I moved from silence into speech. I changed my name

 

to something shorter. I pretended to curse my house,

pretended to haunt the catacombs. I darkened my eyes.

 

I took on the rictus of a monster exposed as I sat at

a keyboard, pretending to play. I cannot say I did this

 

for you. Still, I knew you, recognized the impulse to loose

a chandelier upon a crowd or pull a rival down below a river.

 

I have had to pretend I never wanted to be unmasked, grown

known for my talent for makeup, for wild-eyed invention.