Match, Matching by Cassie Premo Steele

I read somewhere that matches Are only so long and can light At most two cigarettes because If Americans in the trenches Were to be lit up any longer That fire could be seen by Germans and our soldiers Would no longer be safe. What is safe, I say to myself Under a waning moon on The first day of November When all saints are supposed To be here and all I can hear Are rats scurrying in the garage And a raccoon rifling through Recycling bins across the street. Inside the house sleeps the love Whose grandfather was one of The Germans shot by Americans And then was saved by them And taken to hospitals and prison Camps in Idaho and Arizona and Came back to a house bombed To the ground to say, Love them. Them. Us. There is not much Difference and certainly not more Than an ocean that divides us On earth and this is what the saints Want us to know as they watch us: The trenches, smoke, and fire, our Bombs and flags and bodies here Are matching more than matches.

Cassie Premo Steele’s latest book is The ReSisters, a novel about intersectional feminists in the #resist movement. Her website is