fire wedding

they say pearls are what emerge
from a horrible crush. i burn my arm
& the scar forms a new continent.
i build us a house there. it is not enough
because it is never enough. the wanting
becomes a roommate & we carry him around
teddy-bear style. on the third floor
of the old woman's house there was a room
with stained glass windows. i thought,
"i just want to keep myself." you ask me
in the spaceship, "why aren't we married?"
i pretend i can't hear you over the sound
of the atmosphere cracking like an egg.
all my jewelry is costume jewelry. spelling
is overrated i just pour an alphabet soup
& i see what sticks. the repetition of 
the "i" & "you." the wedding lacks
invitations. it lacks guests then too, except
for the old man who used to live 
above us & pretended to be a god. 
the need for a witness makes it feel 
like a crime. in some ways it is. i am no longer
going to spend any days not on fire.
no eyelashes. melted teeth. the fire wedding
would have been lovely if it wasn't for
the fire. if it wasn't for us & our
uncertainty. i still feel like pieces of me
need to be panned from a river. we looked 
for gold once as children. in the old woman's 
bathroom she had a hole in the wall for razor blades.
that little sharp forest where we all turn
into ribbons. i want to love. i want to love
you & i don't mind the fire as much
as i probably should. you think i am 
a squirrel but i am a possum. the man claps
when we are done. we are husband & husband 
under the law of a terrifying machine. 
i think about that old woman's house often.
she did not live with her husband. she told me
"i like to keep secrets."