And there was mold.
And then there was bread.
And then there were spores,
and not caring. Therefore- people.
And the walls of the room the people sat in
sagged like butterfly wings in a rainstorm.
Red velvety twinkles on unlined notebook paper.
The only women in the theater
were not married, were not in love, and were not interested in being loved.
They were intolerable of children
because all the children
and wanted nothing more
wrapped in a bow.
But all their lives, love was untied, undone,
twisted and ruffled,
like a pink ball of yarn wrapped around a grinning jaundice cactus.
And then it is Christmas morning
and all these women had to anticipate
was being poked and bled, poked and bled,
until the last living creature on earth
for their love.
By the bacteria.
By the spores.
By the children.
By the people.
By a nonexistent God in a nonexistent universe,
swarming in the blackness like red velvety twinkles
on unlined notebook paper.