how many years until creating new life

is worse than taking one, something

torturous, painful? is it now?

i don’t loathe my life’s mothers, really,

pinnacles of juice stained sainthood,

idols of upbringing. but, fuck man,

have you seen the place? why would you

damn a baby to boil? the world isn’t ending

but if it looks and sounds and feels

like apocalypse, what should i think?

i remind myself i am no arbiter. i don’t

name hell, i just tongue sulfur like sugar,

and know my damnation when i taste it.

my therapist asks again, do you think you

and your husband want children? when you

have your whole life together, in a perfect

world? i don’t say i lay awake knowing

my nieces will never know a perfect world

i only hope they know one with snow.