What are all these pregnant pauses giving birth to,
have they never heard of the condom, the morning after pill?
The world must be full of their baby pauses by now,
an entire generation just waiting for something to happen.
These snippets of nothing are living off the government,
in between jobs, in between worlds, a weight
like a tax on the word, a permanent tension
containing zero sexuality.
Maybe they are having abortions,
sending Christians into a fervor
because aborting an empty space
is like aborting the holy ghost in the sky,
even though exponential population growth
means soon there will be more pauses
than breaths of sunlight between houses,
but the pauses don’t care.
They say things like “inaction speaks louder
than wars, louder than Satan’s cash register,”
their lips flapping like two EBT cards
taped together. Walk down the aisle of any store
and try to avoid the coitus of pauses
frolicking in an orgy of free birthday cakes,
getting off on the absence of necessity.
But the pauses feel like they deserve themselves,
a part of a sentence still being written,
refugees from a war they don’t even know they are in,
not pausing long enough to pay attention
to the news, to the propaganda machines
calling them socialists, free-loaders,
just waiting for the world to realize
that having peace means pausing just long enough
to see the humanity in the eyes of your enemies.