Candle and Match

Wick worn and burned
down by a mishmash
of lifelong memories,
a faint whiff of vanilla
lingering on a tapered tallow
stump of an eggshell candle,
a hardened puddle of wax
mired deep in a brass holder
like a gimpy old soldier
saluting and teetering
at attention for thirty seconds
at a Memorial Day parade
waiting to be lit by a stick
match of hardy timbre.
But the flint is struck
by the red phosphorous
tip of wood splintered
with barely more girth
than a weathered twig
like the weak and brittle bones
of a USO showgirl dancing
with grimacing grandkids
whining and dining at her 75th
birthday bash at Legion Hall.

Still flames let loose to light
the dank hollow as a soldier
lights a dancer’s cigarette
outside the White Horse Tavern
one misty night after saving her
from drinking one too many
with the ghost of Dylan Thomas.
She invites him to her room
at the Chelsea Hotel where they
dance slow to old records from
Billie Holiday to Tony Bennett.
One of the records skips but                              
the soldier pulls the dancer
away from the phonograph,
away from drinking blue
and into an embrace sending
sparks through marrow
till the skin warms making
useless uniforms and dresses.
Flesh blushes sanguine shades
of salvation as the cotton cord
burns from the nape of neck
down the spine to the hips
where heat rises forging a star.