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.