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