Knowing

She says they're nothing.
Just clumsy.

I tell her, softly,
I've seen bruises like that before.
There.
I wore them
under summer dresses.
I know how they get there.
I know.

She nods
as if I've commented on the weather.

The clock counts off minutes
that last for hours.
The silence between us grows louder.

She will not let the bruises
become verbs.
Just colors.
Purple fading to yellow.

I want to gather her up,
tell her not to carry this alone.

She shrugs.

And I remember
how long I kept my own silence.
How sometimes the only thing
a body can do
is survive the night.

So I sit with her.
Knowing the bruises
will yellow and disappear.

Knowing the silence
will make room for more.

Knowing.