Pink slippers silked
in grass-lashes, dripping
with dew the sky
gave to the earth

tonight. Asleep on
dimpled mattresses, a dozen
princesses, egg-white
skin brushed with rose-

tint, eyes sealed with lake-salt.
Sheets creamed with light
from a silver sliver—
an earring without its jewel:

a thumbprint the size
of a moon-tear. In the morning,
they peel damp petals
from their heels, arrive

barefoot at the table
made from the walnut tree
that refused to root.
They sit and are served:

Forty-eight pairs of slippers
worn out in three weeks? Their father
asks. Their painted lips
refuse to crack. Still,

he stares as they rise and leave.
Their slick shells slipping
out of sight. He doesn’t see—
below their golden

gowns, their toes
braid the stairwell
with ribbons of
yolk.