The new stove speaks only Serbian

 

The new stove speaks only Serbian

but who cares? The old stove
spoke no warnings because
back when we built this cabin
if we didn’t know about touching
hot metal, we found out.

Instead of potbelly, this one’s a cube
with black iron doors, gray steel sides,
ugly. Practical. Price was right.
Like this cabin built of salvaged
lumber and discarded doors.

Like our child, conceived at no cost
right next to old potbelly without
instructions or safety warnings.
He loved that stove but grown and gone
to another continent, another language.

Frost this night as we arrive late.
In the gray steel box behind black iron doors
sits a tipi of kindling over crumpled old news.
One match and it flames like hunger,
the kindling crackles, the little logs catch
and the stove makes popping sounds
which is Serbian for Welcome hello get warm.

The bed is like an ice-plunge
so we pile up quilts, spark our own heat.
At dawn the old cabin clicks and creaks
as if stretching bones in the morning sun
while the stove softly murmurs 
which in any language is how you say
Build another tipi before you go,
I'll be ready when you come back.

…..

First published in Autumn Sky Poetry
Painting by Susan MacMurdy