I’m sorry, I say, that you have to go through this,
though even as the words wing out like ravens or robins,
I think of the way every hardship I’ve met
has unburdened itself into blessing. Not right away,
of course, and not before I’ve suffered alone
in the light. Eventually, even the worst forest fire
is eventually just a burning bush. Eventually, a crumb
becomes a meal becomes a feast. But no one suffering
wants to hear how suffering is good for you,
how the struggle makes you stronger. And so
I say, I’m sorry. And I mean it. The fear, the ache
make a ruthless nest. Nothing to do but love each other,
even as our own hearts are breaking. That breaking,
somehow, links us ever closer to each other,
as if it contains some secret for living. Love itself
holding the knife, love itself holding the salve.