I’ve worked on ranchlands where
the calves in spring bear
red-brown scabs.
Some are palm-sized
(the scabs we’re used to are mosquito
bites and cat scratches)
with fingers tracing Greek letters,
pitchforks, or the worst are
cowboy initials.
Men put their stamp on

I finally got tattooed.
Even though I’m marked for slaughter by the next
(I don’t know his name yet),
at least now I can see my brand and
maybe even learn
to cover it up.

Poem by Annie Jadin,

3 thoughts on “Branded

  1. okay annie…i am about ready to go on a comment rampage as i read your blog. how about this…know that you are now an artist of tattoo yourself, on my heart, and each one regardless of topic is leaving marks that are beautiful.

    i am stunned by this poem…especially the line “men put their stamp on everything”…i have deep reason to know that and have been marred by it, marks that the most skillful artist in the universe is transforming into a beautiful thing…but they are horror, some still not scabbed, as i’m sure you realize…and those beasts then call them tramp stamps…tramp…boot on my face then yes, otherwise no.

    thank you annie…ima be commenting in my heart as i read over the next several days…my lack of comment will merely be me refraining from gushy clutter here!!

    much much ❤


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