what to take from the burning house

i want to be the one who carries 
the whole house out of fire.
arms full of diaramas & god children.
my singed stuffed animals & the phantom hearts
like toads inside of them. they tell you
you should leave with nothing.
there is still a ziploc bag of my hair 
in my mother's sock drawer from my first haircut.
what does it mean to molt? i have lost legs
in the process & eyes & lips. the house
isn't a house anymore. it's a breaking.
it's a super nova. the fire started
in the basement of photographs.
an ancient wink turned flame. 
once, kindly, my mom asked if i wanted
us to retake our family portraits
that hang in the house. in them, i am 
a burning girl. my cheeks are hollow.
my blood is full of mice. i shaved her head 
& peeled off her skin like that of a carrot.
no, i do not want to retake the pictures.
burning is about letting out the scream.
it's about telling the truth about our hair. 
i would take books from the house. so many books. 
trying to choose just enough to fill my arms.
then of course the tupperware &
all my childhood paintings. the windows.
the door. the bathroom mirror shaped like
a ship's wheel. all piled in the yard.
my family & i stand & count
each other's fingers. yes, we are all doves now.
i pluck worms like guitar strings.
my father blames the moon. my mother
pours water on the sun. no more fire.
nothing at all. the house i have not rescued
& the pens & board games still inside.
jar of glitter beneath. a haunted bunkbed 
galloping like a horse through the blaze.
i go back inside. i say, "i can carry more."
the flames have their own gods. they worship
& pray. swell. turn my into a crystal 
or else just an ember. blow on my tongue
& watch the glow of my cherry. 
the tree inside my throat waiting 
to bear fruit & then, years later, catch fire too.