You never asked to
give, nor I to take.
These, our forced cattle
branding at birth.
The advantage was mine.
Wrapped in silken, milky skin,
blur of a glowing world,
my everything.
Next to your crib they planted
a dagger — your destiny
forever affixed to that surgeon’s
edge, never your own.
Cries from my mouth hushed
by the nipple, yours by
syringe, a cold mother
leaving you naked.
Now a grown man, I take
the wheel and drive to your
cell, your home, the land
around your neck.
— © Rick Baldwin