Matchbook

by Alexis Brunstedt

Some memories stay sharp because they mark the beginning of a quiet rebellion. This poem is about one of those moments—when a sentence, a look, or an ordinary object becomes a turning point. I wrote this in reflection of the slow, steady claiming of my own voice and the inheritance I left behind.

Beautiful specificity—changing it to *“folding a Marriott matchbook”* adds texture, class dynamics, and subtle commentary. Here's the revised version with that adjustment woven in:

Matchbook

He was folding a Marriott matchbook

over his fingers—flawlessly, absently—

in his right hand.

Then he said,

“As long as you don’t get pregnant

or try to be an artist,

you can do whatever you want in life.”

The rug was dirty.

This was supposed to be the keys to the kingdom.

But out of the corner of my eye,

I noticed I’d forgotten to put away the other black shoe—

and hoped he wouldn’t notice.

His roof, his rules—

at least whenever he came back

from business trips to set the world straight again.

I was getting used to the shift of things,

but the scrubbed kitchen felt far away

down the yellow hall.

When he spoke,

it sounded like a foreign language—

not the kind of talk we had,

not the kind people like us

shared outside of movies,

where someone makes declarations

about other people’s futures.

Across the bed,

I felt his eyes on me—unrelenting.

Out of all of us,

my skin was dark like his,

a trait that earned me favor

I never asked for

and quietly rejected.

That was the last real conversation

I remember having with him—

though really, I was just listening.

Today, my mom said

she understands why I’ve decided

not to have him in my life.

So I walk into the sun without a hat,

feel the spiced gravel beneath my toes,

and try to make paint

sing.