Ten mothers later was never enough.

i wrote this a while ago:

Ten mothers later was never enough. She walked past the bent over old ones on the way to the store where she bought fishing equipment. Orange juice never consoled her, what if the sun gave you pointed ears and green noses? Horses were necessary, don't forget your little black dress and purple braces and fruit leather with pictures of zoos on Mars. They always forget to feed the elephanpottimuses who go on a rage and disturb the fishes trying to sew their dresses for 15 mothers on christmas cakes last summer. she moved back home for her sister father or was it running a race away from a red creature with strange spines and bumpy parts. calloused old ladies showed her the way under banana trees in the forest and over small glowing bridges to black and white tents full of color and sunburned cheeks and mysterious burned areas around which men light candles and wear wigs and paint their eyebrows. his father came home so dressed and he was frightened of the morning and the scowls and faded paint. don't drop it. don't break it. the glass shatters so quickly like a fire alarm and the kittens scatter. under the beds they hide old photo albums which rot and books pile up and pillow get old and flat. tomorrow go and see the man on the corner and as him for a penny and return a quarter and he will tell you how it ends with a comet and later, much later, nothingness. they come to watch and gather round, a celebration. costumes and parties for weeks and others make all of their grand proclomations with arms raised and it is really like the movies but moreso.

and i am there
and you are there
and now the world looks different
drinking tea
in spacesuits
on black earth
under orange sky

with smiles

and on the backside (frontside?):

ladies in a row
orange necks pink hair
falling from higher buildings
onto your truck

bleeding
coffee doesn't count
where are your fourteen cows?
i left them tomorrow