Matchbox Blues
by J. Todd Hawkins



I'm sittin' here
wondering--will a matchbox
hold my clothes.

___I'm just sittin' here
___wondering--will a matchbox
___hold my clothes.

______I ain't got
______many matches, but
______I got so far to go.
_______--Blind Lemon Jefferson

She would relish in Jack's broken crown. And she was fierce in other ways, too. Ways that made me smile. I knew she would do well for herself in a place like this.

Which isn't to say she wasn't tender, pliable, even soft: unexpectedly. She would always cry at the wolf's death, no matter how many pigs or goats or grandmothers he ate. She would pluck the heads off dandelions but never blow them. Instead, she would stroke them gently with her small palm. So that not a single seed ever left her. What child has this gift? we would wonder.

So, I come to this place once more. And I remember there were those days when everything about her was small. Even after the taste of bubblegum cigars and the sharp metal taste of sleeplessness had faded. Her hands, fingers, ears: tiny. Her thin chest. Her impossibly small toes. Her Breath. In those days, even time itself was small.

And there was also that time when one small box would hold all her things.

_________moonless night
_______blends with foggy morning
_________I am still lost





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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