He burned tungsten and raw copper
flickering green and spitting sparks.
He took just about everything
and all the clothes in the closet.
He laid it out on the floor.
“This,” he asked judgmentally,
“is what you’re wearing?”
He sprayed the clothes with glue,
then sprinkled them with glitter.
I was promised a chemical reaction
and I got one—
yes he kissed me.
Emerging limb by limb from the
melted metal, I thought
of poor Aristotle burning everything
to prima material, all the boys gone to bed.
He cried, knowing by candlelight
that matter can only change
as much as nature allows;
gold is found, not constructed
that is, unless you paint it
on everything you see.
After he kissed me, he said
“science is just talking to nature” and
“alchemy, like reincarnation, is possible
if only you can make enough fire.”