Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue Two

Sara Henning

Little Match Girl

Hard to go home lately. The house, a small orb clung with December, cracks stuffed with rags. Nights I lay thinking of matches, live animals suddenly waking. One match for a penny. It's his mantra. At this price, everyone will want a piece of their short deaths. Last time I came home without selling, the back of his hand escaped with a piece of my mouth. Lately, dinner is ideas of bread swilled in our mouths like warmed butter. Nights, I listen for my stomach, hunting, how arching my back makes the blood rush to my head, hunger retreat to the back to my throat. Windows expel burnt amber, the smell of goose baking with truffles, trees full of candles. Every window but ours. What can they expect for a penny? Stars seem to be the small promises beyond purchase. Beautiful things fluttering in my brain like burst vessels or angel's wings. Sulfur hits my nostrils in a dirty kiss. Growing very tired. One day you will take me where flowers bloom instead of hunger. Eyes closing, and this last flame rolls through my fingers, amaryllis, the shape of your face —