Ayame Whitfield

but you wake again & it’s soft this time,
something full to the brim with song &
wildflowers & sun & you don’t remember
whose body this is, these constellations
of scars, but you’re looking down at hands
too gentle to be anything but memoryless
& somewhere above you a bird is calling
welcome home, welcome home, welcome
home & oh—

oh, is it yours? this body, this life, the sun
& the warmth under your skin, is it—