They think of breeding like breathing, automatic and under siege. As if every bearer of that clump of cells dividing is an enlightened buddha smiling. But think of all the pregnant snackers in isolation now, on hold with Planned Parenthood while they open another pickle jar. There is still a pro-choice lifeline for all those who don’t desire to be pushing as the halo of hack cough hovers in the air of every hospital proximity. Bearing fruit has always come with some probability of rot, one that the bible thumping billboarders now eagerly stretch out in front of us, agape like an open casket. They are parroting COVID-19 shop-talk to shutter our clinics, medical facilities slandered for having abortion on the menu and depicted as butcher shops by firebrand preachers, who degrade the bodies entering so they can wank to them later. But they will never be able to silence us plain clothes abortionists in jeans and exposed navels, who will keep aiding each other with Plan B and Venmo, until their misogynistic hate spewing army is neutralized like a germ cell under an aerosol stream of Lysol.