Matchstick Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(I)

A matchstick spins
the exclamation mark
of a hammered strike,

its tailed dot
spelling a flame jumping
out of its bump,

when brushed into a fire,
the only flat-tongued
and oval petal
that burns and smokes

from the thick cloak
of a flickering roach
not yet cinder,

but spraying out
tentacles of spark and glow.

(ii)

Chewing paper and fabric,
and, often, tinder
from hard timber
into smoke and ashes.

The plumed celosia castle
spat or sneezed out
by a matchstick
writes out a message
from Dryad and Artemis

to float and wave
a fire of traction,
and the laurel
that wins and grabs it,

when chests throb
into each other
and sway with splashed sparkles
and butterfly wings
like paced cascades.

Sweeping down
a sharp-angled slope, digging in
from the growling mouth
of a stretched-out waterfall.

(iii)

Under the bunched
waters from a river
spitting out sunlit
doses of warmth unfolded

from a rolling jumping
stretch of gliding waters,
winding along, as a couple

Nayah, the lady walks,
her clay-dotted high heels
striking the floor
like the matchstick
her frame ignites

into the starred teeth
of every cackling spectator
with each gold-studded
step of her paced saunter.