like a question, we slither
upwards at the end
our voices hitching
until we are two octaves too high.
no one hears the statement
only the uncertainty.
we are buried in our own doubt?
this is not a place we wish to live?
coughing up dirt at the end of a phrase
to keep it from sounding assertive.
and even this. even this poem
has no ending. i ended it three times
and each time it sounded like a whisper.
like in the middle of this page
i was head bowed and waiting for permission.
the poem is over? this is an ending?
is this alright?
my words have been cut off too many times
for my spine to unfurl from my throat/
i am a living question mark?