Coming Home

Such a curious thing:
Like a bee circling
The lips of a flower,

Like a trace of a man
On a slim transparency,
Like ripe berries

Jellied and preserved
In glass bellies
In our inconstant cupboards,

Like a first kiss
Stolen behind the schoolhouse
Or a last kiss,

As the doctor
Pulls the umbilical plug
Out of the cold and silent wall.

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