Alice Haines
Kindling the Woodstove
My feet do have their problems, so I wear
wool socks to bed, slippers when I rise.
Five below at dawn means cold floors
and chilblains—a fire first thing is best.
He tears out squares of newspaper the night
before (better than crumpled for draw),
saves me scraps of shingles in a bucket,
old porch molding too. Flairs good
but paint could be white-lead… what I think
anyway. Don’t mind the splinters on
the splits but can’t load one-handed if the cordwood’s
left as logs; they’re hard to hold.
Fire can’t grab them neither. Come
to think of it, I’m gonna stack those out
to the barn—don’t know why I struggle
so. Now these long sticks, the firebox
door won’t close. He says, get a bigger one,
catalytic, four-pot top,
and an oven. We have electric to cook on,
Forgets it’s me cooking. Long time since
he courted me with home-made soup.
Kale and red-beans. Got to admit,
he’s handy with dishes and kettle. That oak
he felled last year burns long and hot.
I’m fond of the rusty old thing for tea
and a fry-up; may have its problems, but a new one
would crowd out the kitchen. Warmest room
in the house, got to be able to live in it.
The House
Empty when it welcomed us in, we filled
it comfortably; even the dirty socks
had a place. The sea-breeze fluttered the crabapple
leaves and all the windows glowed.
We brought with us an unspoken doubt,
as though a piece of puzzle was missing—
had to skirt around the lack, a habit
like avoiding a construction hole.
The house, eager to please, shielded
us, tugging us back like a game.
Things began to disappear:
one red mitten, a growing boy,
as if they’d fallen through a worn-out pocket.
Fragments of our best selves hid
under the furniture—civility
lost. Despite extensive search,
all that remained were two thumbtacks
and a button. Finally, my husband vanished
too, leaving a sliver of soap
and a liberating loneliness.
The house clung to me and whimpered
when I left. Now it shies away
when I pass by, as though I smell
of fireworks—or sound like thunder.
Alice Haines’ poems have appeared in Pangyrus, The Healing Muse, Off the Coast, Northern New England Review, Touchstone Literary Magazine, and Pine Row. A retired family physician who volunteers at a free clinic, she lives in Maine, where she enjoys nurturing native plants, birding and tracking wildlife.
