You wonder
if I’ve built
you a pedestal.

it’s more of
a crucible—

we have all
the gold coins
at our disposal,

but I don’t want
you to be Midas
all the time.

I already know
I can be
your crown
and that you
can be
my scepter

but this is more
than thrones
and jewels,
and I like it
just that way.

I want the furnace
and the forge,
the sound of
joints soldering:
It’s not a quiet thing.
I want all
the hammering
and melting.
The vice and bellows.
The sweat
and smoldering.
I want all the messes
and cast-aside
and the shock
of steam—
that rude awakening
when we give birth
to some new object.

Listen. This isn’t
a box of chocolates;
a neatly wrapped gift
I’m offering for you
to admire and sample.
It’s a ripping in half,
a breaking
of the seven seals.
It’s a gut
filled with lava,
our throats
coughing up
showers of sparks.

I’ve already decided

I want all
the metals—
all the hardness
and the softness,

all the alchemy
you bring me:

the quickening
of mercury,
leaden gravity,
the iron of Mars
with its swords
and anvils;
the silver moon
conducting currents
of dreams,
and the golden means
we’ll live within.

I want to be
the water
that cools
your blade
that forges
all the tools
we’ll build
cathedrals with,
and the hinges
that will open
all the doors—

and I want
to whisper
the stars
down into
your open hands
so you can blow them
like dandelion seeds
into the wind.

© Psyche Marks 2017

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