ON NOT HAVING A BABY

Crayons aren’t eco-friendly;
there’s no colony on Mars.
The end, according to the Mayans,
was supposed to start on Sunday.
Still we’re due in 2026. At night,
I lie awake expecting
bomb threats in Hawaii, rising
levels of alerts, or of estrogen
in fish. False alarm. Be rational,
you say. If it happens, it happens.
There is no Punnett square to determine
whether my alleles, if wrong
can ever make a right,
the chances of expressing
phenotypic probability,
mother’s tendencies to cut
her fingers, pick up every piece
of glass along the sidewalk,
still terrified somehow
of a sliver in a bottle,
the damage to stray dogs.
If you keep on breaking
strong glass, eventually
you get sand.
The smallest fraction,
broken further, in theory the distance
between her and me gets infinitely
small, while never being reached.
No one tries this with Russian roulette.
Be rational. Why take the chance
dividing two by two, my daughter
will not get my teeth
my bark, my bite,
just the loss
of expecting
sleep.