The Woman Question

She was born of woman as a word,

swaddled in question marks but cooed

with answers - statements of soothing reassurance

‘Til she could grow into sentences of her own. 

In a Period of Time, learnt to play, learnt to ask

why / why / why / why / why to every question another / why /

a game of frustration and interrogation, repeating

why / why / why / brandishing questions as her weapon,

taking / why / and turning it to / why not / and / not yet /.

She carved into knowledge itself with her questions and

Reaped wisdom from its wounds. 

Down the line of youth, the world tore questions from her hands 

and turned them against her;

/ why / was now followed by decade-long questions with

answers so indeterminate they were almost nonexistent.

They shoved / why / down her throat till it bled,

And her body ached from reciting answers

to questions she didn’t care for

When she’s cast-out, bleeding answers and holding questions

Above her head, she’s the lonely word spinning

Out amongst the stars - testing - testing - 1, 2, 1, 2,

Does anybody read me? 

But there’s radio silence, and a break in / why / 

a slow breath, a lull in words, until-

…?

a resurrected question in her heart,

Just the spark, the spirit of questioning,

Of who, of what, of why again - of tilted heads and hands raised

Of craving and learning truth, of questions

With no answers and answers with no questions

Spurring noise, spurring hope, and living

With a question on the tip of her tongue.