I wear my mother’s face like she did hers and she did hers and she did
Pass it to her daughters with the hope that they would carry it with pride,
With the knowledge that a thousand women breathed and lived and died
To give their children half a chance for something more than
Lives of nursing cleaning raising children
That would grow to do the same—
More than another round of the everlasting game
That chooses only newborn players with soft skin and open eyes,
That only ends when all is lost and the final player dies,
The game that steals our bodies, shears our hair, dyes our skin,
That steals away our pride so that some lesser man might win.