Just Bones
Pandemic Poetry
~after Maggie Smith
Life is a virus, and this is why
I will never have children.
Life is a virus, that replicates
and replicates, that replicates
and replicates, until all spaces
subsist on a shortage
of clean air to breathe.
I will never have children.
I imagine the limitless ways
society may crumble
like sheets of ice
separating from their polar caps,
where new viruses awaken
from frozen slumbers
in the warming saline waters
encroaching upon coastlines,
and I could never subject a child
to such a dystopian fate.
Life is a virus, where every vacancy
is just another rainforest
waiting to be razed
while your children nap and drool
wet spots on the carpet dark green.
If any archeologists survive
the coming war, this apocalypse
of post-facts and educated elites,
they won’t find bodies, just bones.
They’ll dig up our toys, our books
containing stories and photographs.
They’ll say, wow, this world
was once so beautiful.
Who would destroy such a wonderful world?
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