Microscopic Ambassadors

Microscopic Ambassadors

I have continued to go out, to move about, to step off the deep end and hope
I don’t drown in the sea of contagion.
 I have crept through the apocalyptic streets, not deserted as expected:
So many of us excepted from the rule of quarantine.
I have touched perfect strangers, and wondered
What piece of me they are taking with them?  
I feel as though I live in the airlock, the vestibule of last-ditch precautions.
This time of invisible and ignorant sporadic sharing has robbed me
Of a sense that I can exist outside of other people.  
A part of me went home on the doctor’s hands.
A part of me now lives in her ambient sanctuary and I hope it does not
Invade her as a conquering army.
Because these parts of me, my microscopic ambassadors
Do not always represent my benign and peaceful intentions.
I used to worry about the parts of people that clung to me,
Stopping on the threshold of my home to strip and run everything through
A sanitizing cycle, exfoliating those hitchhikers down the drain.
But what parts of me that have sneakily sloughed off into another’s pocket
Are lying in malevolent wait?  
I wish I could recall them all to me.
I wish I could siphon off every cell I have ever left behind,
Gather them to me so that I need not worry about calculated risks.  
Never mind that I would mostly be recalling help,
Retracting comfort and reneging on kindness.
How can I ask people to return an ounce of love in exchange for nothing,
Terrified that the refund might come up one virus over asking price?