Tender, My Tinder

By Amanda Lee Baldi

My grandparents met over a match
in an indefinite Harmon Mute world
where her red hair was wrought iron
and his black brows remained staunchly
themselves.
She shut her eyes, seeing him in sepia
with just her nerves,
a wry smile recounting wrongs
until his arms around her waist.
She smelled of flint
and he of tobacco but mostly coffee.

*

So do you

*

smell of coffee but mostly tobacco
—and flint
needs only a touch to leap to life
because when you surround me
you
run through me a neon undertone
surely as (my hair flares red
and yours remains staunchly itself
or our infinite beat-box world)
I will lean into you.

___

Amanda Lee Baldi believes in the humble industry of the individual and the splendid endeavors of the mind. She lives in Boston, Massachusetts.


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