a match

Deep South v.3. n.1. (Autumn 1997)

"I once set fire to my fingernail.
I wanted my finger to be a
human candle."
She dropped another match into her glass.
The flame sizzled
in the drops of drink at the bottom.

She struck another match
at the side of the box. Kitchen matches.
Six or seven lay on the cocktail napkin,
ten more at the bottom of the glass.
In a corner booth, in this small club
the flame she aroused looked like
any other table light.
But the club was hers. She owned it
feet on the bench, knees bent.
Everything there focused on her
and the little piece of energy
she held.
Everything there was hers to abuse.
And she struch another match.

"An old flame used to say
that everyone is a pyro at heart."
And she blushed.

"Yeah, I set my
fingernail on fire
as I was talking to someone.
It was a fake nail. The burning
plastic smelled. 
But I didn't realize what I had done
until I felt the heat on my skin."

Just then you could see the flame 
dancing at her fingertip.
She shook the match. She dropped it in her glass.