No child will have our poor vision,

no girl–rawboned and gaptoothed,

no boy–truck-addled and bow-legged.

Is our love less than, not holy,


selfish or selfless? It takes more

than love to keep love alive,

couples splitting all around us

with a nasty thud, clatter


of lawyers’ billable hours.

The couples ferry children

back and forth like cargo,

but we never boarded ship,


never wanted those dangerous

waters, marital cowards.

No couple should have kids

to prove they’re a couple,


hurling their DNA into the gene

pool just because. What sense

does it make to blame us

for what we didn’t want to hold,


scorn us for a lack

of progeny when you can’t

tell love when you see it:

everyone greeting us


as strangers at

every hotel check-in,

servers always asking

if our check should be split.

Photo by Anna Laura Irsara