If she asks for love, be not afraid when she bites from the apple of her palm. If she asks for warmth, be not afraid when she becomes a hearth in your heart. She is the child of basil. She sprouts from summer like warm mists of green. She is the herb of life, a spice distilled in the walls of your throat. She rearranges her fingers, they shuffle on June evenings like a deck of worn cards. The mind parts without bones. It is easy to forget one's ligaments in the homeland. A girl without roots. If she asks for a name, she is the gulp in your throat.