Clown Face

Crushed into beetles' petals, for my lips
I can feel their sun, encased in the austere lacquer
and made into a paste for laughter.

Something like my father's face, romanced
with a rim of lightbulbs, and tears of his hope
walks a well-worn script.

Where Aztecs ruled, a child-hand curtseys,
and a tent of insects applaud the basket,
their bloody farewell crying a smile
to the Northern rain in my heart.

The glitter thrown to the wind falls to the dust of saws.
Stars to ashes, heaven's applause.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.