In This One Nobody Gets Pregnant

for ages, a decade passes quietly, no maternity
leave, no pumping stations, no diaper sales—
preschools begin to go out of business
and everyone’s blissed out on sex without babies.
It takes a while for the policymakers to break
the bad news effectively—no young blood
means no workers to support the ol’ bones, no labor
force to do the brute work of stock market growth
or even stocking market shelves for that matter.
Well, my love and I had never planned on having
children. With bans on abortion, a frozen fertility plague
seemed almost nice almost kinder, a near divine
intervention. God in the prophylactic machine. We cuddled
into the end time, whole months and years stretched
without the pitter patter of strangers’ feet. Golden 
light pooled every afternoon. The world was always 
ending, but this time we knew everyone who’d end 
with it. No last season guest stars swooping in 
for the ratings. Sweet empty nurseries turned into art
studios, spice cabinets, walk-in costume chests. Oil 
paints, cardamon, chartreuse chiffon evening gowns—
or a back room the sun filled up slowly, then left.