Firstborn
By Candace Black
 
Outside, wind sings to itself.
Daughter, you are too young
to distinguish that sound
from all others and so you sleep,
nested between the mountain
range of father and curved wall of breast.
In valleys our feet make
lies the cat.  The dog, as is her habit,
guards the doorway from dark
harm.  See how easily we make room
for you, tiny creature of tight fists,
erratic breaths that stop
your parents’ hearts.  See how we mold
our lives to yours.  See two strangers embrace
those barbed titles of a lifetime.
Named for Scotland, you’ll be
too intent on surviving to notice
the consequence of creation
until you write this poem yourself
some windy night, with water of another
ocean beating the glass.