Waves of bitterness,
pet dog and cigarettes
cling to dark wood,
seep into sledgehammered
drywall.
A shroud chokes
a misbegotten dream—
dust thick on the tongue
pushes into lungs.
I wrap my arms around
the intact banister.
I walk through crumbled plaster,
crunch shards of colored glass.
All houses hold a spirit
and yours is broken.
They lost you, so they hurt you.
I can’t collect your pieces.
I can only hold this for a moment.
Janette Schafer is a poet, photographer, playwright, and realtor living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA in poetry from Chatham University. She is the author of three collections of poetry and the chief editor of two poetry anthologies. Her writing and photographs have appeared in numerous journals, newspapers, and websites, including Vox Populi, The Missouri Review, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and Eunoia Review. She is a winner of the Academy of American Poets Prize.

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