Cages

Six years I won’t love a woman. I don’t let myself. I sit, instead, once a week in a circle of mostly men and attempt to name the wild beasts running through my blood. Years ago, I threw the boy I once was in the cage. Locked the cage door behind me. Watched what happened when the feeding began. The snarl and bark, an appetite whetted, and wanting first to eat my teeth. 

I don’t know who I am without fist or knuckle. I am no one without the bottle and what it brings in the blood. I wander the streets looking for what will sate me. Wait, patiently, for what comes walking my way. When I finally love someone, I am only prey. When she touches me, I am a charm of finches, a flight of swallows, afraid of the overhead shadow. My body is a herd jumping back from the river’s edge, afraid of what breathes in muddy waters. I pray I won’t let loose what lurks inside. The beasts are hungry for my return: the king of animalia.