Hide and Seek
Neil Carpathios
Impatient for it to hatch, every morning I’d rush to where it lay on grass, nudge it with a stick to wake the baby I pictured curled up sleeping. But it never moved. I heard a tick inside. I pictured the chick flicking on a lamp to read his little instruction book on how to be what he’d be—a bird. Chapter One: Catching Worms. Chapter Two: How to Build a Nest. Chapter Three: How to Recognize Windows and Not Smash Glass. And so on. I got tired of waiting. I took a rock and mashed it into yellow goo. Then I poked through embryonic slime and bits of broken shell, determined to find the book every living thing must read. It all comes back, as hands and feet against my inner walls kick, punch, scratch. Something pushes me apart. I start to see. When all our secret places were used, we found a new way to fool each other: we grew adult bodies to hide inside.
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Iron Horse Literary Review
