but somebody's daughter
birthed from the bloodbath
and amniotic water
dressed in pink and violet lace
with ribbons weaved into her hair
a smile slapped on her crimson face
to not utter a sound till spoken to
and marry by the age of twenty-two?

Who am I to be
but a woman's friend
to listen, and listen and listen again
to serve coffee with a plate of bagels and advice
and at her wedding to throw the rice?

Who am I To be
but a man's wife
that takes the vows that last for life
who polishes the furniture till it shines
cooks the dinners precisely on time
and spreads her legs at a quarter of nine?

Who am I to be
but somebody's mother
sweating in pain from the bloodbath
dressed in a grey cotton gown
as doctors check for the breath
of this little life
after they cut me with their knife?