Stove


A girl stretches out
on the family room floor,
up way past her bed time,
cheeks flushed with fatigue.
She is in exile, an only child,
the clinking of glasses
so far away in the dining room --
her mother's Christmas party.
The wood stove cackles to her,    
popping with fire and old age,
and she thinks it might be alive,
the heat and lateness of the evening
making anything possible.
It looks so heavy, so dirty,
its black iron face grimacing
with the weight of hard work,
like her father's unwrought face
when he is out chopping wood.
It reminds her of what a grandfather
might be like, scary and antique.
She barely remembers hers,
but thinks how nice it would be
to have this obese machine
as a relative, its rough warmth
hissing with quiet wisdom
the way old people seem to.   
How nice it would be to have
someone to talk to, smarter
than any of her stuffed animals.
FRANKLIN is spelled
right across his charcoal brow.
What a perfect name for a grandfather.
She would like to sit on his lap
on this lonely winter night,
to hug him, to be hugged back,
no matter how hot his touch.   




Nina Riggs