Who shall I curse that I grew up / believing in my mother’s face / or that I lived in fear of potent darkness / wearing my father’s shape / they have both marked me / with their blind and terrible love / and I am lustful now for my own name.

Give him to me, I said. I held him up before me and looked into his screaming face. ‘Sweet son,’ I said, ‘you are right, this world is a wild and terrible place, and worth shouting at. But you are safe now, and all of us need to sleep. Will you let us have a little peace?’ And he calmed. Just went quiet in my hands.