it was morning when he caught me
he'd been praying to the east, never
one for praising sunlight when his muse was
electricity, electroshock therapy,
when even the way he worshipped was an experiment,
his hands clasping one another
and his head-lines craving to kiss but never being
able without the threat of his fingers coming

he never believed in palm readings anyway
they were inconsistent, inaccurate
and he had so many machines prepared for mapping the mind
that the treasure map across the surface of his hands
meant nothing

and i, i must have been squinting into the light,
always flying my path straight to the west
gradually going blind,
managed to get trapped in the gap between his palms
in that strange epicenter
with my dove-ears pressed against his pulse-

and he kept me in this flesh-cage
where his fingers made the bars

experimentally speaking,
there was a desperation in his procedures
that formed drops of condensation on
the tip of my bird-beak-
tasted of:
grain pellets,
positive reinforcement;
he used to say
"i can teach anything how to be caged"

i was so anxious from the
just two clips of the wings and i was
practically immobile
when you take away a bird's flight
you take away its grace
and suddenly i was hopping around on legs not meant to
hold my weight

it took months of confused stumbling,
before the day i got caught in the cage floor bars
and while going to disentangle my claws,
found in their place:
with head-lines that could kiss if i kept the fingers untwined
because i'd never really been his pigeon
i'd just been clenching my fists so tightly
they'd started to look inhuman

a/n: For clarification a head-line is the crease that travels through the center of the palm.