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.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 42 Number 6, on page 34
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