Visiting Hour

“Tell me – do you believe
in reincarnation?” she asks,
bathed in a four o’clock sun
slipping home before
its curfew.

“I’m in two minds,” I reply,
“but I take it that you do.
So, surprise me. What
or who will you return as?”

“I’m torn between a bird
or a ballerina. Pavlova, reborn,
perhaps; wowing the crowds
with her Dying Swan.
Do you think me odd?”

A wry smile on her lips, cracked
and dry; wrists, matchstick thin –
manacled by wires hooked up
to contraptions that would defy
her will to die.

“No,” I answer. “Not odd at all.
In fact, I will lead the applause
and settle for nothing less
than an encore.”