Surface Tension

The stove is a cold, metal mouth.

The draft from the window is a thin insult

that kills the pilot light twice a night.

I scrape the sulfur against the red sand

of the box—a sharp, dry rasp—and the wood

snaps. A clean break. No bloom of heat,

just a pile of headless sticks on the floor.

My fingers smell like chemicals and grit.

The matchbook is damp from the sink,

too tired to hold a flame for me

no matter how hard I bite into the strip.