Brittle

The sun is a white blade across the glass,

blinding the news anchor’s face.

I dig through the drawer, moving the batteries

and the dead lighters until I find it—

a thick red circle, dusty and stiff.

It doesn't stretch. It gives a dry crack

like a winter twig, leaving a smear

of pale powder on my thumb.

The welt on my wrist rises hot and quick,

a stinging map of where I tried

to hold the light back.