by Wendy Burk
Your battles are over. What befell
has been slipped into folders, boxed, and measured.
Your ink so flat, fruitful,
still desires to unfold —
I am sorry
I don’t remember
I have found great comfort
I regret
I have been terror-stricken
— an apology or an argument.
What do we reach for now, but words?
With them, with their aid
we finish each other’s sentences
and we finish the sentences of the dead.



