Used to like matches—
wooden ones snoozing in box beds.
Never dad’s stiff-paper nerves
ignited by backtalk,
like when he called me greedy
for not sharing a shake with my sister.
He was pinewood and sulfur
eager to cook my behind when I said,
I wonder where I get it from.
I blazed those adolescent years,
when he said I had shit for brains
if I forgot to cut the grass
or if I didn’t take out the trash.
I was a phosphorus-headed
boy who, when struck, torched everything
until my uncle told me careless fires
hurt innocent people.
I remember mom clenching her jaw
and closing her eyes when dad and I
nearly came to blows. Something
about me wasting his money
for not graduating on-time.
It was the same face she made
when she burned herself
while lighting a near-empty candle jar,
soothing her stung thumb
and index finger.