Matchmaker, Matchmaker, make me the match
to ignite fire when the wicks won’t work,
to strike friction, turn fictions to energy, torque,
take sparks and route them through as I write,
strike
all from my mind and now in the world.
Matchmaker, Matchmaker, make me the match,
find me a find.
Some sort of muse that isn’t boys or my mind.
Something I can use past the Bechdel Test blues
(which, yes, I’ve failed already).
Matchmaker, take me out of the box.
Instill in me as Your creation
a steady gleam of inspiration:
heat without being burnt, burns without losing feeling,
feeling without losing my ground.
Matchmaker, Matchmaker, show me what’s found,
a torch in a cavernous mountain of sound:
rhymes unexpected, rhythms untold,
fuel phrases I’ll underline, highlight, and bold,
tap, scribble, and obsess.