Firstborn

You focus on them fixedly, the first
part of you that leaves but stays alive—
as if your hand could crawl and cry and thirst.
Although they need your care just to survive,
they're out of your control. Of course they're cursed.
You're vulnerable through them. For them to thrive,
you sacrifice and save, your funds disbursed
to smooth their way. You hope they will arrive.

The firstborn suffer hardest from the friction
between their parents' pride, control, and loss:
restive, rebellious, always in the wrong.
And when each choice of theirs is your affliction,
they stumble toward a place they can belong:
displayed on a front page or on a cross. 

Susan McLean
 
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Susan McLean would be pleased to hear them