by Kathy Kubik
We were born in these walls,
same hands, feet, heart.
The doctor comes in throwing scissors,
gold shears catching the light
clear as the sky.
It is at that exact moment we become two,
gnarled and spiky,
our landscape changed to a vast, level plain.
Like razor wire in a prison break,
But no alarm sounds.
Nothing is lost
but for an insignificant pool of blood
and the once matched breathing,
steady with my own,
becomes one solid voice.