musingsonwomenshealth.com

What is it really like
To be a bat?
Others
Have asked,
But now
I think I know.

One flew
Through an open door
Last night;
The room was hot
So I’d snuck outside
For a little breeze
And left a fan
To wobble
In the room.

For a bat,
It must have seemed
Like the beating
Of a thousand insect wings-
A Chiropteral
Shangri-la.

But
The one that entered
Flew around the walls,
Confused
At its mistake,
Then panicked
In the labyrinth
Of wooden rooms,
Still open
And promising
Freedom.

And yet
Despite the echoes,
Their promises
Were
Empty,
So it continued
To search for
Ariadne’s thread.

I soon gave up
My search
However,
And shut every door
To trap it
Hanging
In whichever room
It decided to spend
The remaining night.

But it,
No doubt,
Clung
Somewhere
In terror:
Deprived of food
Deprived of hope.

In the morning,
Though,
I saw it fluttering
Aimlessly
From wall to wall
Like
A forest bird
Imprisoned
In a wooden cage,
Too fast for me to catch.

It landed,
Quivering
And exhausted,
Resting
On its tiny elbows
In a chair.

When I approached,
It did not fly,
But hopped instead
Onto the floor
And tried to hide
Beneath the tassels
Of a rug
Despite
The open door
Beside it.

I could see it
Leaning
On its little arms,
Shivering
In fright.

So,
I tried to lift it
Gently
On the bristles
Of a broom
To show it the way
Home.

But it refused
At first;
It would not move,
And looked at me
Like a lost child
Might.

Then,
Feeling
A touch of wind,
Unfurled
Its fingered wings
And flew away.

I suppose
I’ll never know
If it could tell
I meant no harm,
And that I did not
Invite
It in
For capture.

But
I’d like to think,
In those last
Few moments
Before it flew away,
It saw
More
Than alien eyes;

I’d like to think
It knew
I understood
Just how
It felt.