Space Heater

Space Heater

There are many families where no one writes poems,

but where they do – it’s rarely just one person.

Sometimes poetry splashes down in cascades of generations,

creating terrible whirlpools in mutual feelings.

                                                                                Wislawa Szymborska

                                                                                In praise of my sister

It doesn’t give much and that on high if I

remember to turn both

switches before putting in

the first bit

of laundry at two

am.  It will have started

climbing by the time I have

my towels spinning in their cold

water and always imprecise

allotment of powder

                                bleach

                                fabric soft

and they’ll wash and wash a yesterday off

and maybe a day before it was only one or two

face cloths.  Once, living

in a house by the ocean I came to knowing

if in the winter I didn’t

at least leave the heat

somewhat at a comfortable 65

                (and you don’t know the wind

                that blew off that salt tide

                and rattled the doors)

                (and I had that hat

                                and scarf

                                though I would’ve liked

                                those fingerless wool gloves

                                so I could have my fingertips bare

                                but I don’t know why, they go

                                cold first)

the bathroom pipes would seize

and I’d seen it once

before and it wall came through

                                                how solid water made solid brass

                                                laugh and split a well soldered seam

                                                into a wide green chapped lip

and the water pushed through

for days and days and days

(that was before I lived there)

at the end of December.  Maybe that’s

when I started thinking about being ready

                being prepared

                for the cold.  It seems

we can take it and take it and take it for a long

time and then once it’s gone

solid inside (and whose to know that, right, looking as we only can

                on the outside)

the ice expands and pushes like a birth

and there’s no place left for it

to go but out, and when the heat comes back on

the green sweat of verdigris stains

the plumber’s fingertips and thighs

and he tells me to keep a small

blow-dryer on the ready for the coldest nights

and to stand for some time and run the water

into the sink.  And I do.  I watch it on the coldest nights

a single stream of warm water, gallon after gallon,

to keep the pipes warm and clean.