I’ve got no children. In his wisdom, God
Determined that’s the number I should have.
I accept his judgment, feeling no regret
For the twisted roads of all my ancestors
Dead-ending in my cul-de-sac. I raised
No daughter who would see herself gripped
By an electric, buzzing mirror in her hand,
No bullied son who’d raise a gun to send
Other schoolkids into their own culs-de-sac.
The acre-feet of water they’d have drunk,
The plots of land and tons of meat chewed up—
All saved because they never lived. And think
Of children and grandchildren they’d have had.
One could conclude I am a saint of restraint.
If any build a statue in honor of me,
It will be raised by hands free of my blood.
