listening

I remember when I was most alone
most empty of all I had been made to do
you came to byron center to find a bench with me

we were on a trail, the sun was cutting its knife through the trees and you were telling me everything like you do, how afraid you were.

how you didn't know what it would be like. how you were trying not to be afraid, how you kept thinking about him and his way out, and how parenting felt like your knowledge of Pelicans, something you had seen from a distance but had never been yourself. I watched you put your long dark piano fingers across your growing womb as you spoke about knowing him as he grew larger and  I remember you telling me how you had already named him and what you thought about the name and where it had come from. you tell me everything, and I like that.

I don't remember, did I give you advice I didn't have?
I hope I absorbed you there, all your words.
I hope I left the topic unresolved and just shook my head and said things like "yes, yes" and "oh I cannot imagine" instead of trying to fix it, or cure it, or ease it like butter eases bread

I think that would be the best way I could have befriended you that day, and I thought of it just now, as I thought of listening. how it has nothing to do with the mouth, and more to do with the eyes and the shoulders.