Glitter

All that will remain after an apocalypse is glitter.

— British Vogue

You have a daughter now. It's everywhere,

And often in the company of glue.

You can't get rid of it. It's in her hair:

A wink of pink, a glint of silver-blue.

It's catching, like the chicken pox, or lice.

It travels, like a planetary scar.

Sometimes it's on your face, or you look twice

And glimpse, there on your arm, a single star.

You know it by a hand's brushing your neck—

You blush—it's not desire, not anymore—

Just someone's urge to flick away the fleck

Of borrowed glamour from your collarbone—

The broken mirror Time will not restore,

The way your daughter marks you as her own.

A. E. Stallings