Under a crescent moon, a woman and her young daughter
spin in gowns studded with stars. The mother combs dreams

from her hair. They break into blooms of green, orange, maroon.
Her long locks ripple out from her scalp—a golden flag, a wave

of light against inky air. Beneath their feet, a carpet of fallen stars
illume their way. A green-faced crone, skin scaly as a crocodile,

wags a crooked, bony finger, invites them closer. The mother soothes
her child’s cheek, chants a litany of constellations to dissolve evil

spells. Her lilting syllables shimmer a shield around them.