I want to write a poem for my daughters

In which the moon is never trite

And the leaves attacking my feet mean more than just the sweet cloying desirability of death.

I want to tell my girls about that anger in the pit of their guts

The anger made of layers of decaying women

Piled and disintegrating in their loss

Harsh and crisp on top

Slimy and black beneath

With a strong and satisfying scent