Munsie's Fires

The road climbs, banked, turn after next
into the stands of poplar and oak.
Rhododendron.
Smoke floats still and blue.

A sheet-metal stove in a living room
bought from a high shelf in a poor shop
burns fat pine too fast.
The tin glows.

Pumpers hung with hoses
chase clangs and howls up damp hollows
on Saturday night.
Volunteers in yellow slickers
soak another trailer.

The diesel took too long to fire, wheezing.
It's all a quilting bee and donkey ball
could buy, an engine passed down from the Army
to the foresters, finally to
Munsie Gap and its tractor mechanics.

Bill rages, flailing around the crowd
as his home sighs in on itself
pink insulation singed and hanging
like cotton candy. The aluminum melts.
Everyone pulls up their cars
to point headlights and see.

Mary remembers the photograph of grandmother
and a teapot.
Something in the house pops,
and everyone jumps.