Glitter Trail

My daughters feel sorry for my corrugating
face. Snail mucin, prescribes the younger.
 
Yes! says the older, after consulting her app
for badness and goodness. Their orbits can be 
 
rather tidal, so l unscrew a pretty lid, smooth
white goo on my lines. Perhaps this is why
 
they catch me under the snow moon, grazing
the potted pansies. My long stomach blossoms
 
with violet, yellow, crimson spice, with crisp
green bites. Then my daughters’ planetary heads
 
eclipse the glow, their large eyes shining—
What is she doing? the younger asks. She who?
 
the older says. I want to tell them it is snug
here, in this spiraled house, but my skin thrills
 
on the petals, and the dirt is cool and damp.