You never asked to give,
nor I to take.
These, our branded destinies—
seared into us
before our first breath.
The advantage was mine:
wrapped in silken, milky skin,
a blur of glowing world,
my everything.
By your crib,
they planted a dagger—
your fate fixed
to the surgeon’s edge,
never your own.
My cries were silenced
by the comfort of a nipple;
yours, by the cold pierce
of a syringe,
a mother of steel
leaving you naked to the world.
Now, grown men,
I take the wheel,
driving to your cell—
your home.
The chain tightens,
its land around your neck.
— © Rick Baldwin
