The will to have children,
it comes in atoms
that make up slow smokes
Fear that the sand may forget
the way our footsteps sank in-
pumped plump with life.
That a golden age would dawn without us,
that no one would read our name out loud
even in an obscure book at a city council library.
That it wouldn’t have mattered a thing
if we lived or died.
But, if a speck of our dreams, our secret schemes
made it to promised land
tangled accidentally in a hair of some distant being that lived
only for itself and its day,
I suppose we could call it immortality.
The will to have children is not about love or other noble things;
it is about the fear of dust.