They guide us like the perfect flock that we are
Wrapped in our bandages and
Paper-thin pyjamas.
From each room to the next,
Then back to the first one,
Only unlocking the doors at request.
Letting us, if anything
Appear sullen, hermetical,
And that is all
For our own good.
The way they murmur and meddle
And inspect us from the corners of their eyes
Makes me think of a row of
Snow-white pigeons on a fence or a wire
Or a high secret tower
Looking down.
Ready to fly when approached
Into a storm of
Blinding feathers,
Quivering skeletons
Which can’t be followed
Or asked
At all.
We are the ones caged, of course,
The ones left at the bottom
When the well-behaved go home,
The worms that wriggle in the corners
Of the icy pigeon-citadel,
The flaws of the world.
Upon rising we are glared at
By sun-like ceiling lights,
The white walls,
The ruthless
Pigeon eyes
They burn.
Their presence, ever starker
Seeps under the cracks,
It traps our naked bodies,
Draws symbols on our backs.
As night falls we might be left
Relatively alone
With the shadows and the silence
And our thoughts,
Our inner worms.
Rotting behind curtains
On our colorless cold beds,
Lying wide-eyed
Smooth and amber
In the glow of distant streetlights,
Lying barren
Endless, chemical
Unblinking, glared at still;
Dying until
Dawn comes
To spoil us with its bleach.
Say it, pigeon lady,
Say you believe me.
My case is mild, you see.
A well-trained smile will
Fix me.