If, at last,
the merest rumour of your scent
warms the air drifting to my door,
I shall shake my thin thighs loose.
My hair will grow back in the usual places,
my eyes regain their focus, my ears
will hear words and speeches again.
Cicadas will chirr live under the marsh grass.
Perhaps it would be June,
the green returning to the trees.
When your shadow crosses my door,
please enter without fear.
But remember not to ask where I’d been
or what had fed me in this empty room
curtained with fine webs of silk.
Ignore the seethe of all my memories.
Come, take my hand.
I am human at your touch