The Primitive Streak

What are you doing up so late, little one? 

Awake among the Petri dishes 

No place for children

Where is your mother? Your father?

Do you mean to tell me

These nice-looking men in lab coats

Are the only parents you know 

As your filigree DNA unfolds they peer

Into this sterile womb

Strain to catch a glimpse of 

Your nascent primitive streak

Unwilling to admit it is theirs 

We all fear

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