I must have been preferred when I was born:
desired by my parents, and the first.
But Mom was scared and hasty; she was torn
between the love and errands. I was nursed
by a professional, to scheduled sleep,
and bottle-fed, with days and nights rehearsed.
I don’t remember primacy that deep
until I grew to a priority.
I married him, but learned to loathe the sweep
of adulation suffocating me.
To be my husband’s favorite felt a chore –
the weight of bliss the opposite of free.
My babies each were angels to adore,
and soon esteemed me most in their small world,
but also taught ambivalence, for sure,
as in unending labor I was hurled.
So while I’ve several times been Number One,
by love surrounded and in passion whirled,
it never was unmitigated fun.
In truth, I feel alone a lack of stress,
existing now as other than a Sun
or Moon. First-favored brought no happiness –
perhaps by Mom’s unease I was forlorn,
but of triumphal love I’m best with less.
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