Andy Kissane: Two Poems

Match Girls, 1888

She holds the frame and dips each pair of sticks

into the yellow paste that will catch and burn

in the darkest London night—a luminous ribbon,

Lucifer’s finger. When dry, her sister cuts

the matchsticks with a knife and stacks them

into boxes. The phosphorus is safe, the foreman

said, they need not fear. Yet she’s heard talk

of Bessie losing her jawbone, heard Ada say

that they ought not eat at the work tables.

Today she rises early, despite the beginnings

of a toothache and a raw, bleeding gum. One

must not complain. Instead, she pokes her sister

under the quilt and they laugh at their teeth, glowing

green and ghostly in the warm cave of the bed.

Andy Kissane

Skipping Girl pines for Golfer Boy

We work in the same industry in jobs

that are repetitive, physically demanding,

poorly paid. I skip on top of the Vinegar building

in Abbotsford, he hits a golf ball

into the 19th hole in Surry Hills.

We work nights in different cities,

then talk all morning on Skype. He tells me

he’s more than a bunch of excited electrons

pulsing and flashing for all the world to see.

I laugh and offer to show him

a few tricks you can do with a rope.

I’ve promised to rub his back with lavender oil

as long as he runs a bath for my aching feet.

What more could a modern girl want?

Andy Kissane