Certainly, to enter a world of terror, you should not be pushed by someone. You should be called. You should be curious. You should have the heart of an explorer.

                 - Phillipe Petit, from Why is the Highwire Impossible to Resist?, 1974

On sleepless nights she lays
her chest over mine.
Our limbs draped long
as spiders' legs.

White sheets strewn
with hearts the size
of hummingbirds, hearts the color
of storms.

I feel it rise—just—
the rhythm, hers,
beats against (atop) my own.
That blood memory. This flesh

Women carry two hearts,
sometimes more
—their own and the new one's,

The choice is mine—of course.
This netless drop.
To look back, fear. Forward, love.

Those wings. The child.
That need. Compelled. Called.
There's nothing we can do
but ride birth to its end.