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