ProtectorYou were a butterfly whose wings had been stolen.Protector by MickeyFebruary
The legs you used to chase after me when I dashed into traffic,
now unable to lift onto the footrest of your wheelchair.
Your full flesh which once kept me warm,
now draping bones, displaying aged ripples.
Dark locks, now silver and shimmering
under the dull bedroom light. All signals
of your spirit's autumn departure.
Four springs since, I have become a white-spotted body
with black veins and tawny-orange wings.
Yet with the brush of your ghost hand to my forehead,
your generosity plays in my mind,
and I am cradled in your cocoon.
The porcelain clown childThe porcelain clown child by MickeyFebruary
The porcelain clown child was perched
on the window ledge, his red
painted lips bearing a smile, fresh
ebony eyes twinkling against the sunlight
leaking through the milky curtain.
The clown was heavy in my little hand as I wound the key,
thick clicks growing intense with each turn
before the shimmering chimes broke in.
He revolved in dance, taking me
to the clean concrete and lush grass of the driveway
where I would hum the melody for Grandma,
as Grandpa smoked cigarettes in the living room.
Grandma stood straight, hair dyed brown,
lips painted coral, hazel eyes twinkling.
Now cloaked in dust,
the clown is heavy in my bony hands.
I think of how, after decades of wear, the song flows like lava.
How the smoke is caught in my thinning hair.
How the gears can hardly turn.