I inform the madres that I will not mother, while my kneelocked nerves shake. 
They mourn the unconceived. 

Not a henbasket of eggs. 
I will not bust my breast to 
feed feed feed
breakfast to chickchildren that will never be. 

My days spent with the click-clucking of a clock
				that has no biological argument with me. 

Sex will be mine. I feed my mouthy sex delicacies. Or the mundane. 
Endure multiple culminations while I 
fuck suck fuck
the cock. 
A rooster cawcraws the suspicious daylight as I henpeck politely. 

Quiquiriquí, man, you can leave. 

Horrified mothers breastclutch their barren grandmother space.
I balk at their bidding with a seductive strut back to the yard. 

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