How do we tell the children, who
in their caged innocence grow
ignorant of the slow blind calculus
that we, knowingly, take to our lungs.
How do we tell them that the green
boot of commerce outweighs a grand—
mother’s soft pink hand, her kiss:
the butcher’s knives flash, the pigs wrapped.
Uncontained among the bravado
and the vanities of self, the taker breeds,
unseen — molecular in the bliss
of the now indifferent. Tell them nothing.
They’ll ingest the math soon enough
and see that integers, when multiplied
over time, grow far beyond comprehension,
the least of them consumed by the stake.