in moss-lined pouches to the next hearth.
—Jane Walsh Reilly, 1893—1987
In the dark-paneled hall
of my grandmother's house,
mother-of-pearl light switchesó
the kind you push in & out,
resounded like sprung mouse traps
& light flooded the room.
The moment after one pushed in the switch,
wires inside the light bulb glowed red
like embers from earlier fires
to keep back the wolves and the night.
It was the woman's job
to keep the hearth fires lit.
To let it go out was to let death
come into the house,
my grandmother said.
Inside the heart of the light bulb,
between horn-like filaments,
beside the finely-coiled spring,
a smoldering spark from the first hearth
is locked inside because all atoms
are recycled except the ones we've split.
The white hair of my grandmother
as she bends to read
throws off its own aura of light.
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