I have inherited their questions.

 

I have ripped questions from their cooling fists

                                        before rigor mortis.

 

I dug in the earth to despoil their graves &

                                        pilfer pockets of their suits for questions.

 

I wanted to be asked about the nature of time & 

                                        ways to keep count of lonelinesses.

 

Their questions were

                                        strangers dancing at the quantum level

          in & out of my decreasing space.

 

It’s how I knew they existed as more than images in a book.

 

Sometimes, I begged; others, I read; mostly, I listened

                                        as they told their stories 

          about childhood beatings & angry men

                              who smashed at their atoms with a hammer.

the happiness they found in warm whiskey or an icy pill like mine.

 

They wanted meanings for their suffering. I couldn’t give it, 

                                        took their questions,

          possessed their questions, embraced their questions, &

                              replied with inky flowers

that were lovely little questions, too, & chiefly why?