Mama Bear asks how we can know 
childfree is the way to be 
for ourselves  
without  
experiencing what would be  
our children, 
but it's not bleu cheese, Mrs. Bear. 
 
I can't gag and tell the waiter to take it back.  
The waiter would just laugh 
and say "you made your choice, 
now choke and keep quiet about it." 
 
Mrs. Bear would like to be our waiter. 
 
But I've picked a different restaurant 
with fine china and no need  
for locks on glass cabinets. 
Teacups rest on saucers upon doilies  
and top shelf liquor lies within arm's reach 
for those who prefer their tea 
Long Island Iced. 
 
I know I'd hate sewage in my water 
without having tried it. 
It's not even on the menu. 
The proprietors know us well. 
 
I know I'd hate fraying wool 
fibers stabbing my thighs like cacti 
behind my sheer silk skirt. 
Their seats are muslin on bamboo. 
 
I know I'd hate contracting 
flesh-eating disease,  
consuming me so I can't consume. 
Knives are sheathed in folded napkins. 
 
I know I'd hate cockroaches  
crawling across my plate and  
tarantulas dropping on my red pumps. 
The busboy swipes finished dishes. 
 
I know I'd hate the pain  
of a copperhead bite  
right before it killed me.  
The manager keeps the building cold. 
 
I know I'd hate drowning: 
waterboarded to the point of nearly dying  
from shock and hypoxia. 
Water is served in Irish coffee mugs. 
 
I know I'd hate falling off a cliff 
to break my back bodyslamming  
the crashing waves or jagged rocks,  
but Mama Bear, if you honestly believe  
 
you can't know  
until you do it, 
 
please, do it.