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.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, give me the spark
to type what lies around the bend,
separate horizons of nighttime and day,
divide between lightness and dark,
and shine ink on the chaos where they blend.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, you are Divine.
You’ve made me a match bound by limited time –

Matchmaker, Matchmaker give me a sign
while I sit here idly crafting a spine
of splintered thoughts and flickers;
Let me glow
and grow older.

Make me more than a flash,
larger than ash,
before all the doubt,
before I run out, turned smolder,
keep my potential awake.
Don’t let the hand that holds me shake.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker,

find me a find,
catch me a catch,
look through your books,
light me a light,
write me all right –

in the image of fire and wicks
your gorgeous, imperfect match.