earth's core

i saw your eyes in the cherry bomb. 
we were digging past dinosaur death
& reaching into a box of costume jewelry.
has your grandmother died yet?
did she leave you a box
of faux furs that smell like cigarettes?
mine still inhabits a closet where
beneath her dresses is a magma hole.
the earth is furious in her guts
just like me. i have taken a shovel
& searched all night in my skin
for an ancient civilization's remains. 
clay pots. spoons. the bone of a murderer.
how do you know the sun isn't 
made of silt? a river with a silken face. 
i have tried before to get deep. i have
torn up floor boards & found bones.
you were standing there & pleading,
"let's just pretend we never saw this."
for as long as i can remember
i've been afflicted with nostalgia.
the past puts on a robe 
and settles in the wiry innards 
of the planet. i ask my lover, 
"how does a tree die, is it roots 
or branches that go first?"
he says, "that is not how trees die." 
i decide to believe that a tree passes on
when their roots lick the earth's 
raspberry heart. 
then, all they can dream of 
is chocolate & sleep.