The Dress

I can just imagine how you felt

when I said that I would

burn that dress, put it in the fire

after keeping it all these years,

through every move, every town,

every apartment, every house.

It hung in every closet.

You think I’m being cavalier

though that’s not the case.

The love we’ve made doesn’t live in cotton threads or circles made of metal;

that’s why they hate us, because it’s clear

that time and space never mattered.

This love won’t die, needs no light nor water, not even air. It comes back on its own time,

retreating just the same, in its own way,

regardless of our chatter.

They don’t know how hard we’ve tried to choke the life

out of this love with both of our hearts shattered.

Let’s write their fears and all our hurts across the hips of my white dress, down into the skirt.

I’ll build the pyre then light the match, kindle it all by myself, pretend I’m in a church,

put vicious rumors up in smoke.

They’re mad because we always had

stardust in our hearts and eyes,

the ability to take the sky and leave the earth behind.

Jealous of our skytime, never knowing how it hurts to come back down to earth,

to tend every need revolving in those eyes and hearts with their abyss of greed.

I’ll burn the mud they drag me through,

though it resists my spark. They think

this fire will burn me up while they scorch the earth, but sacrificial rite

delivers me from schemes and plans

breeding darkness out of light.

This fire is mine, not theirs—I’ll give

not one red ember.

I’ll fan the flames, shuck off my clothes, dance naked with our love

on a cold night in December.

When that last coal has lost its glow,

I’ll gather up the ashes,

transfer our past into the ground

where I will plant my flowers.

They’ll grow in love that’s ours not theirs

while the sky remembers.