Poems Don't Have to Rhyme

Chains

Here at the spit-shined boots of celibate monks

Black as tar on gleaming asphalt

We kneel before the altar of new gods,

The latest acolytes at the temple of eroticism.

The head cleric is dressed in clinical white.

He sits on a melting throne of cardboard and compost,

Chants like sewage seep from the grates below his slippered feet,

Raw filth whispered by blackened tongues.

"Kiss my ring," he says.

"Swear allegiance to us."

Someone dares to ask why—

After all, wasn't this stuff supposed to be free?

"Because," begins the hierophant.

"The sun is puncturing the atmosphere,

The air is not fit to breathe,

The weather is unpredictable,

The crops have all drowned,

The ice has melted, the seas have risen.

I know these things; I have seen them.

The only solution is to stop spreading.

We're now living in a post-reproductive society."

At the looks of bewilderment he smiles.

"Do you find it hard to swallow?

Is it difficult for you to believe?

But even if you cannot see it,

That does not mean it isn't real.

You must have faith, child.

You must learn to trust and believe."

"You must be a poor speaker," a woman replies.

"That last thing you said—

I don't understand what you mean.

How can we stop procreating?

We would die out as a species—

It is suicide, if not genocide."

The priest smile grows still wider,

splitting his face at the seams.

"Dear girl, you surprise me.

I would think you'd be grateful.

Surely you know that in less enlightened times

You would have been just another brood mare?

Ah, but perhaps you are one of those happy few

Who have not ascended,

But are dominated by such base lusts

and primitive desires

As the home, the husband

And several children?"

Aghast, she stands silent

For she does not yet know what she wants.

The high priest pulls from his immaculate robes

A gilded pornographic icon.

He hands it to one of the uniform monks

And gestures toward her.

The monk approaches,

his boots squeaking as he walks.

Beside her, he leans in

Puts his mouth to her ear

And with the semblance of a kiss

Says, "You refuse and complain

They pull harder on the chain."

He thrusts the icon into her grasp.

"Here we pray with our hands."

"Must we pray that way?"

"Yes—

There is no other way."