What Fire Was Like

 

 

leaves on fire

What we needed, we did not want.
What we wanted, we did not need.
Whatever safety I sought in you
Did not exist there.

We were in a cold room, two sticks
for hearts. When they rubbed
together, some kind of furious dance,
a spark, ignited the bed,
set the house on fire.

There is no joy in melting
into the other. No self in the end,
no sense of what made
us whole—or what we made.

The skeleton frame of the house
stood still, smoldering and terrible,
while we watched, our hands seared
by nothing we could touch.

key words: Janice Lynch Schuster, poetry, divorce

About Janice

After years of writing--poetry, essays, articles, reports--I turned to drawing as a way to cope with grief over the death of my grandmother. This turn to drawing has become a complete opening to it, and has led to publication of my first picture book, "What Are Mothers For?" A joyful reflection on the long and loving relationships between women of all ages and stages of life.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *