Black and silent bird in the corner, three-hands high
and growing, growing. I think if I feed it
often enough and plenty, it will serve me.
But it consumes only — much food and greater space.
It sizes my moves with a quick, dark eye.
When will it do, instead of be?
Fear again and again.

Bird grows. Head cocks, talons flex. I wait, eyeing
the far window. Can I, will I reach it and then
thrust open the panes so one of us can leave or
go free? And what then?
Fear again and again.

Black and looming bird in the corner, seven-hands high
and growing, growing. It shrieks, one huge high sound
born of peacocks, roosters, bats. I scream inside
as I go, edging, inching. I'm getting,
getting to the window. I'm reaching,
reaching, pushing, pushing, all fear, no breathing.
The wooden frame sighs, moving up, up.

I'm out, away from guardian eye and claw and beak.
I flap and flutter and make to speak, but no words,
only winds, rush through me.
A bird was in the room, yes,
a bird was in the room
in me.