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.