A Perfect Number

In a brick oven
was where we finally
lay down.

I put my finger
in a pile of ashes
and drew an 8
in the hard place
between your
animal breasts.

‘A perfect number,’
you whispered,
though there was no need
to whisper.

Our master
came and went.
We heard
his footsteps
on the soft, suburban lawn,
gathering twigs
and pine brush
for the burn.

You pulled me towards you.
I felt your fingers,
shivering their tips
on the back of my thigh.

‘Why did we decide
to do this?’
you asked me,
‘and when?
and what for?’

I said, ‘It was our best idea
at the time.’

Through a crack between
layers of mortar,
we saw the master’s hands-
dark, steady hands-
remove a book of matches
from the mantle.

You trembled
and curled into me:
a naked, frightened
cocoon.

‘“To be consumed is to
transform,”’ I quoted
because we both knew
the saying
and it comforted us.

Then I watched your lips
turn to flakes
of paper
and be sucked into the chimney.
And white flames came
and ate your tongue.

And I sat in a pool
of melting
and saw my eyelids
boil away.

‘Marriage
is the kingdom of heaven,’
the master whispered.
Though there was no need
to whisper.