The Anechoic Chamber

Styrofoam triangles cross hatching
The floor, ceiling, and every wall
Squeeze the room in an anechoic fist.
“Will I die in here?” I wonder aloud,
Craving the comfort of my own sound,
Hearing my voice only after it rattles
Flatly through my jawbone to my ear.
I start to think about that oak tree,
The one growing in Louisiana. Alone.

-T. Weeks
(A response to “I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing”)