My wife tells me in the lamplight
after everyone else has gone to sleep
that sometimes she hopes
our children won’t have children
because they will suffer what
we leave behind, that we are
the last lucky ones to whom plenty
means more than we need
rather than more than we have.
I can’t comprehend how my hypothetical
grandchildren might live. They’ll use
food science as one word. Land
on asteroids, Mars, control computers
with their minds. Maybe they’ll
pre-program their dreams like mixtapes.
My daughter and I talk about this
and that; her classes, my day, the movie
we watch, but could we evolve beyond
mouths and simply think with each other?
Can we still have hands that can hold?
My wife and I lie on the couch, tired,
the sound low. Outside, trees on the slopes,
millions of cicadas and crickets in them,
the darkness shattered infinitely in their song.