Even a cave calls out asking for the things I ask for.
Only in the afterthought voice, a slight upturned end
as in the curlicue of a question. And then I ask,
would a grave listen as the first shovel offered its body?
That impassioned fling or flung, that blanket of dirt,
or would the grave speak, beg for filling, and then tremble
in the ground, waiting for my cold body to curl against it.
I approach the lip of a mouth and call into it. Listen for the backtalk.
Would every girl beg back what she was begged of?
I hear there is a place inside the endless places
where the sound of a question hits a wall and must make a choice.
The ends of questions bend to repeat, briefly articulating
into the rigid exclamation point before arching
back toward the mouth, where an ear waits for agreement.