My life began in a cul-de-sac
and shall end in one, no matter
how many streets I live in, there
is no way back into mam’s womb,
not that I would want to return,
as I breathe and feed without her help,
outside of it, and walk back home
from her grave when I have tended it.
Inhale her Chanel No. 5, and hear
her play Fleur de Lis on piano,
and her shouts of “Paul, Paul”
up the stairs in the cul de sac.
It seems a circular return, it isn’t,
last breath is not a circular one,
it exhales the light and colour.
My life ends in a bag bottom.
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