I won’t be the one to organize it,
but you won’t believe me. In the scenario,

we’re inside a crate, in close quarters.
We’re breathing the same air. There’s a little puppy

to the right of me, who also has a bag
over his head. We all stare straight ahead,

and the puppy’s snout breathes wet
onto canvas material. The atoms

quickly oxidize, leave us feeling antsy. It’s
a kidnapping, in theory. We know

that we’re box-bound, locked in casket. We know
death is possible on the outside. The villains

unhinge us, drag us into light. We’re in
a linoleum lair, quickly

put to work. In one iteration, my aunt
is the kidnapper. I remember to note that,

to call her when I’m awake, to curse her
for being so cruel. You flash a look at me,

and suddenly, the dog is gone, has never
even been a part of the equation. We’ll work

until release, know that it’ll eventually be over,
have some grasp on the relative reality

of the situation. But you’ll douse me
in shame, cast your conviction of wickedness

over me, over all that I am. You won’t let us
reconcile through victimhood, you’ll bind me

as oppressor, you’ll accuse me
of killing the dog, you’ll argue

that I put the bag
on your head. I am only just glad

that it was there. It’s been so long
since I’ve seen you, I’ll want to say.

What have you been up to? If I ask,
you’ll ignore me, or answer: this and that.

I don’t ask, and I wake up knowing
that we go opposite ways once freed.