To the Child Who Asks

Am I your favorite? you want to know.
And I say yes: As every breath I take’s
My favorite breath. If, say, you’re eight, that makes
You my favorite eight-year-old. Ditto
Ten, nine, seven, six, five, yada, zero.
You were my favorite series of summer earthquakes,
My favorite live-weight centered on the cervix,
My favorite sight unseen that year. And so
You are my favorite child right now, because
You stand before me, asking that my heart
Declare, You first, you always. And it’s true.
It works this way. Love’s strange, elastic laws
Grant each child its undiluted part,
And that, my love, is what I offer you.