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.
Jodi Barnes 