NaPoWriMo #15: Hollow

In the city the wombs became hollow.
Women wondered who snuck
into their houses, removed
their one precious thing in the world.
Some fathers were happy.
Tests had indicated positive,
but now they were wrong,
and the men could flee into the wreckage
of the buildings, burrowing
like mice into new apartments.
There would be no naming of anything,
no unique moniker that would
label children through high school
until they tried to change it.
Cribs would be stashed in closets
filled with strollers and toys,
debris of the solar system,
the sun having closed down its heat.
Kids already here would write stories
about their siblings who disappeared,
Santa snatching them to be elves,
zombies transforming them into monsters.
None of them blamed God,
who was on vacation they believed,
sunning himself under a million stars,
when this could've been a punishment.
For what, no one knew?  He didn't say
anything like he did in the old days.
A grumpy old man, he didn't wish
to talk, to separate himself
from his enormous wordless thoughts.