By Annette Marie Hyder

little ragamuffin girl
selling matches in the cold
each match a story that flares briefly
against the bold
bleakness

if matches are stories
in this analogy
it doesn't mean they don't have
utility
starving for her art
she watches

others
light their cigarettes,
their candles and lamps
and fireplace kindling
with her wares

she has all she needs
to start a fire of her own
but can't get past peddling
her gift
down to the bone

she imagines pinching
blue, pinching orange
off the match heads
like pinching daisies off
their stems

tossing lit ones like small
gem-struck birds
to spread their ember wings
and float up
or sizzle on the ground —
taillights of afterthought

she lights the nights
in other's lives
while window pressing with her nose
and standing on her tippy-toes

while she is living vicariously
her own spark blows out
peremptorily