Your child is born, and panic makes a nest in the beating hollows of your chest. You’ve set this heart, made of the matter of two hearts (born of desire, and restless sleep) amongst the storm, the rise and fall, of callous waves, and while you cling, and bend to break the tidal increments, the wash and thrash, the crashing wind, and other cruel things against your back, you know you lack the substance. You are breath, holding breath, held by breath, and on until that first yearning breath, when breath was made, and the panic started. A strong wind is all it would take to end it. That panic beating in your chest, it’s better to befriend it.