Every animal after 10 a.m. on a Tuesday:
A pair of pigeons
beneath the overpass,
who bob toward me
in unison (each
the other’s reflection)
and shuffle off
as I approach.
Two big, white rats
in a plastic cage.
Their eyes are cherry jelly beans;
they are nearly blind.
The smaller one, whose brain I have seen
with naked eyes just this morning,
has a crown of staples.
A rock-sized toad,
soft under my foot.
A robin. An outdoor house fly. The husk
of a rhinoceros (on the television).
A herd of goats:
twelve young, five old, two teens.
They brush their necks against
my legs as shy swans.
They have names.
They have breath
like the pits of hell.
I have so many illusions
about our lives. So many,
I call them by name.
So many that
when I separate dams and kids,
heaving their hot,
sentient, stinking bodies
through one shining gate or another,
I imagine that their yells
are for food. I treat them
to pomegranate seeds, or raisins.
This poem is not a commentary—
Not some jading juxtaposition
between the lab rats and milk goats.
Not a remark on animal death, which is everyone’s.
Leaving the goats, a rooster.
And, as the sun is setting,
I am approached by a cat
with seven toes on each of his paws;
today, a sprig of red feathers
between them.
Molly Vander Werp is a poet and laboratory technician from Grand Rapids, Michigan. She is a recent graduate of Calvin University (‘21), with degrees in writing and biochemistry. This is her first published poem.
