It could be an invitation to gather around the listening table …
—Julia M. Fehrenbacher, “It Could Be”
Today we gather around the listening table
and I notice how when one woman speaks
of grief, her notes ring in me as if
I were a cave made for echoing with the song
she sings, and another’s words strike me
as if I’m a bell made to be rung by her voice.
And when one woman says, “I’m a digger,”
I want to shout, “I’m a digger, too,”
but I don’t. I listen. I listen and notice how
the act of listening is its own kind of digging
in which we are hollowed out and filled
at the same time. Around the listening table,
I let the spade of joy and the shovel of ache
the spoon of awe do their good digging work,
though sometimes it hurts as they
excavate in me what is real, and sometimes
it thrills me to hear another speak,
filling me with what I, too, know is true.