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.
QuiquiriquÃ, man, you can leave.
Horrified mothers breastclutch their barren grandmother space.
I balk at their bidding with a seductive strut back to the yard.
