I asked this poem what she needed to say

There was silence,
then this: Tell me about
the moment you wake up,
what it is like to set two
living feet on the ground.
Tell me about water,
water in your mouth,
water rinsing your teeth.
Teach me about grass, no,
lay me down on the grass,
lay me down in the sun.
Leave me in the rain,
let the dog sniff, the ants tread.
Permit me to be blown by
the wind, swept up in a storm.
I am not like my brother poems,
my step cousins and aunts,
the ones that waited in service
and allowed themselves to be
dressed in your purple wishes
and polished with sequestered dreams.
I will not give my skin to you.
You stare at me, trying to think
of a pretty way to describe the moon,
when all along, the moon itself

is hovering in the sky,
asking you to sit in its silence,
not writing a single word.