Fetuses

Often I dream of fetuses:
sentient, amazed at the prospect
of soon having new material to work with
when they themselves dream.

Of their aborted kin they say nothing,
understanding that sometimes,
dreams are not meant
to come true.

They focus instead upon
the dark ocean
that is all they know.
They don’t care for discussions

of genocide or choice, see
such topics as issues for a less
all-encompassing world. 
Particulars, they say; details

we don’t care to address
until we’ve gotten out and lived a little
and had a chance to understand
the meaning of the word “dichotomy.”

If the ones who did not have a chance
to make it to that point were here,
they’d likely say the same.  But they’re gone
and that’s that.  We don’t know about them,

say the fetuses. 
Wherever they’ve gone
they’re probably waiting for their own moment
of emergence, and like us they probably don’t see

the point in debating
the merits of life versus death.  That’s an issue
for later. We’ll let you do the fighting while we float
and until we’re out of here somehow, assume nothing

of what we would say if we could speak.