I remember nothing of my own birth.
I am not like the reincarnationist
who claims it was more painful than his last death.
Or you who recall the odour of your pram lining
at two months old.
Nor am I the infant, who one day stuns his mother
with a tale of a blinding section of white,
being grabbed by hands.
Why would a six year old make such a comment
as he playfully struggles free from his sweater?
Matthew Coombe
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