Baby Brother

I took his hands,
little and sweating.
Baby hands
with pink,
pliable nails.

Kneeling next to
a plastic desk,
five different colors
and a little red chair
too small for him,
the worldliness
caving his shoulders.

Hunched with
salt-tears,
and a sad, shaking mouth.
Baby brother,
my only one.

There are silver tethers
between us,
moorings of a ship
between our souls.

I let the electricity of
the past flow into him,
from my burning fingertips,
to his own small palms.

Genetics were of no 
help to us, but our 
heads lean together
over the desk
and we are the same,
still. And I remember
when he was wrapped
tight
and kept behind sterile glass
walls, away from me.
Crying in the maternity ward,
for the missing part of me.

I tell him,
it will be ok.
You are smart.
I squeeze his palms,
and let go.