hands of wrinkled leather, captive
by blobs of pink flesh, teaching
how to communicate
the black behemoth stares
at their elongated fingers, moving
extremely rapidly, shifting, changing
alternating positions that should
have meant something, anything but for
the pile of tar-colored fur, it was
a blur, incomprehensible, unfathomable

the men look through the glass, wary
about the extent of their
experiment,
since the gorilla flicked its lip
at Colo, who was attempting only to make it
learn, and turned its back,
forever ignorant of its captivity

it stares at its hands,
as though tools for work, but work
it has none, play all day, every day
physical labor is not required, no not for it
it sits and eats, and eats and sits
but with the frequency of men
wishing to demonstrate their knowledge,
shifting to accommodate for its disregard,
it, too, began moving its hands
for other than stuffing its mouth

it's learning, they observed
lazy, unmoving, immobile had it used to be
useless, in other words, other than an excrement machine
but now, with great glee, they could loudly and proudly say
"look! it's using its hands in different ways today!"
and through the window, pairs of beady eyes peaked
right between that sliver which separated them,
frightful, fearful, of the triumphant truth,
so it was, reciting the alphabet which Colo
provided, each letter another thing to master
all smiles around, claps on the back, "it's learning how to speak!"
one man, timid, nervous and young, asked via
unbidden tongue,
"what happens when the walls between us grow to weak?
what happens when it begins to understand the words we leak?"
they shrugged him off, continuing regardless

it always takes time to learn, especially
when pressure breaks a back in the process
more hand movements settled nicely in the
nestled equation for more food
an easy calculation to make, easier, now,
to fully execute without slack
because it doesn't know yet what
these obligatory symbols mean,
even if it nods its head and says
in its head, "yes yes, this all makes sense"
but food is food
and mouths are meant for food,
not talking -- that's what the hands were for, right?

months go on, and the miraculous minds
believe themselves alone have cracked the code
acquired the lexicon of gorilla vocab, and expanded
its narrow walls
it can speak simple sentences so quaint
a baby could respond and keep up a conversation
it says
"I'm hungry"
"You're odd"
"It's cold in here"
left alone to gaze, the young man
who believes nothing good can come from them
can't help but pace
back and forth, forth and back, nothing shows on his shrewd face
only one to witness greatness in the making
because an inquiry unbeknownst is thrown into the midst
not by the man, but by the blob of black in the center
the attention's on him, the spotlight's illumination is tender
humans, he ponders, are the only beings capable of questions,
yet, despite all odds, here he is, looking at a sorrowful face,
conditioned with wrinkles, old age
endless fatigue
"when am i being let out?" is its life-long examination
looking left, right, up, down,
 everywhere but where freedom truly laid
the young man closes the blinds
and never speaks of this
groundbreaking discovery again