BY MATTY LAYNE GLASGOW
The difference between a dungeon and a den
is the nature of one’s captivity.
A man wears a harness and becomes my god,
likewise, a bear adorns himself in leather straps,
so wildness can be a breath pulled closer.
I once thought forgetting might liberate me,
but here I come to realize I’m most free
when I’m reminded of myself.
Feral, but harmless. Stuffed, but alive, hidden.
When I was a man, I was really only ever that boy—
time stopped by a pair of strong hands I did not ask for.
It was bright that day.
Even with my eyes closed, I felt the sun through
my eyelids, saw my pink flesh aflame—my body held still.
If I had been an animal then, might I have fought back?
Sometimes a dungeon is a memory where I become
so good at playing dead, I never move again.
But I was never dead, just cold and still beneath him.
If there’s a soul within me, an animal might coax
its warm glow from my flesh brutely,
so I can see my god before me in all my light.
Don’t stop. Pull me closer. I want a better look.