How Does the Lion Cross the Star?

my son asks as he crafts a foam moustache from sud and splash but 
before he says—with his mother's help—he laughs, unsure how to deliver 
 
a joke or why it's funny for a mom to be needed so bad. Cover your eyes 
I demand as I funnel faucet water down his curl-plastered back. Later  
 
I sip mulled cider while we fight over cartoons and tangles, me trying  
to explain why hurt is worth a mane shine-sure and dangled. I don't  
 
want this—a conversation that admits we put more faith in blondes 
than our Cabinet, that Cosmo is beauty’s only map even if we know 
 
it's not accurate. I love his bubbly aftermath, the wet footprints he tracks 
—though I should scream for having to clean, I relish each wing-deep  
 
foot pad. Together we watch our balcony gurgle night, then spit it back.  
Someday I will buy him a globe and swab the air with its pastel slabs,  
 
beckon him to swirl the painted sea with his hands. I want him to see 
depth is not something bodies grasp, but an art our minds develop  
 
to gauge love's slap. For now, I point to planets I can't class, then ask 
him to believe I once slipped joints into the purple of my skirt just so 
 
I could observe my own smoke grow edgeless from the green thigh 
of New York's dirt. Does it mean anything that I love the lion and 
  
the path he traversed? Mothers aside, I say, let's gush not giggle when 
any animal gets high enough to chisel star, sky, or mud-bellied earth.