I want to understand.
"How can you understand
what it is like to be a woman?"
Okay—
I wish I could say
I have had the experience
of being a woman.
That’s absurd.
That’s bizarre.
I know.
But isn’t that why we’re talking?
To help me understand
what you’ve felt,
what you’ve lived,
what you want me to know?
You said
there are things I cannot understand—
and you were right.
No one truly understands
any experience
except their own.
And yet—
someone can explain,
someone can share,
someone can try
to help me understand
what I cannot understand.
I always begin with this:
I do not understand.
Every experience
in our lives
shapes the next.
"I don’t understand," she says.
"Neither do I."
"So, let’s talk."
"But you don’t understand."
"Yes, I know."
Does it bother you
that I tell you
I don’t understand?
I understand
that you understand
that I don’t understand
that you
don’t think
I understand.
But still—
I listen.