Gabrielle Harbowy

The lab is chilly. It feels sterile and heartless. Most of the cages/...are empty, which gives me the creeps, but the one that’s not vacant is worse./ It huddles, frightened or maybe just shy, at the back of its kennel./ Feathers, claws, and scales, a sleek swath of brindle fur. And always, the eyes./

Big and brown and smart, those eyes might be from a doe, or from a puppy/—a much-kicked one, too, perpetually on the verge of full-blown tears./ It uses those eyes to get what it wants from us: food, lights on, blankets. A hand through the bars? Nice try, creature. No chance in hell. Not with that beak./

My dorm room number is five seventy-five, and so is the lab, too./ Coincidence, right? At least I won’t forget, not that I’m forgetful much./ Anyway, my point: even in my room I feel the reach of those eyes./ Big, wet and pleading, without being able to tell me what it wants./

Five-seven-five. Funny how our brains do that; a number, or a phrase,/ once we notice it, we see it everywhere. (Bleh—I hated psych class.)

But it’s like the thing / is all up in my thoughts and / maybe my dreams, too. // I’m not forgetful / but I know I locked my door / last thing before bed.

 

Like I always do.

Like I always lock the cage.

Always. That sharp beak.

 

But those pleading eyes,

It always looks so lonely.

One touch couldn’t hurt...

 

 

H is for Haiku