Complicity

It’s simple. I don’t have to be afraid

anymore. Everyone is dead or dying.

Even two million ova of the unborn

entombed inside my 3-month-old

granddaughter.

We’re simple. Predictably falling

for procreation, raising a middle-finger

to decay, begging not to be unfooled.

I hold this tiny human whose birth

was not a rage against death

but the surest way to perpetuate

it, enabling its purpose again

and again.