My son thinks we are cows

My son thinks we are cows

bent over in four legs

over fields.

The landscape moving

to the past in the car.

It is long ago he made

an identifiable tear in my eyes

glueing his lips to say "mommy cow".

Their back bones folded

like gymnasts

accrobating

forward

presenting their work

to strawberries and lettuce,

an audience full of perfume,

deodorants,

and other misused cosmetics.

"Mira las vacas mami

pisando las fresas"