Women don't wear a mask of many colors Nor one that attracts But an invisible, obscure covering A sometimes protective shield Not crafted nor conjured by Merlin But one dispensed to herself Worn as necessity When words tipped with hurt Are hurled her way The voice gets lower and slower The shoulders droop Strangled words are stilled Her mask is on It is the outward significator The outward display of mastery But sometimes. . . Like a hawk, we detect the silky, Insincere, sly, fakeness Of other females First, the Cheshire smile slides open As if on greased teeth Then we hear her sugary, slippery voice Is she desirable? demure? darling? No, blind male Her mask is on written 2/14/96