The Natalist

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Childlessness has spread, a modern plague:
women ignore their body when it begs.
Conception pins the soul that flesh accosts.
We can’t pretend the formula’s been lost.
We can’t say we’ve no child-rearing funds.
Impoverished, foreign couples stay fecund
in our own irreplaceable homelands.
We claim instead that parenthood is bland.
But genes we take for granted as ourselves
are lent by nature and not ours to shelve,
and failure to pass life beyond life’s close
sets limits like no child could impose
as we age into hermits and shut-ins,
with none to visit as our next of kin.