Mary replies to the angel, ask me again

                         —not asking my ears
which like shells still surge with your silence.

Ask me this time with your tongue
touching mine. Give your words

to my mouth, let me swallow.
Let me tongue, and taste, and spill

my frail and almost unformed yes
back into you. Let it grow

as will the life I’ll let you plant in me.
So may I know as I’m consumed

that some slip of me is taking root
and strengthening in other soil—

that whittled down I’m not diminished.
My yes runs deep and rises, breaks

into the bloom of your body, as yours
              is borne in the long unforeseeable branching
                        of mine.