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 folded a Marriott matchbook

over his fingers—

clean creases,

without looking.

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 stained.

This was supposed to be

the wisdom.

Instead,

I watched the black shoe

I'd forgotten beside the bed

and hoped

he wouldn't notice.

His roof.

His rules.

Mostly whenever he returned

from another business trip,

still carrying the certainty

that the world

could be arranged.

I was learning

how a house

could change temperatures

without anyone touching

the thermostat.

The scrubbed kitchen

waited

at the end

of the yellow hall.

When he spoke,

it sounded imported—

not the language

my mother used,

not the language

children borrowed

from one another,

not even anger.

More like someone

reading aloud

from a life

that already belonged

to someone else.

Across the bed,

I could feel him

watching me.

My skin,

dark enough

to remind him

of himself—

close enough

to be claimed,

never enough

to be known.

That was the last conversation

I remember.

Though conversation

is generous.

Mostly,

I learned

how to listen.

Today,

my mother told me

she finally understands

why I chose

not to keep him

in my life.

So I step outside

bareheaded.

Feel the Arizona sun

settle across my shoulders,

warm gravel

press into my feet,

and spend my days

trying to make paint

sing.