A shadow-melting sun crept through the leaves,
and perforated your eyes
when you looked at me and said your ‘wings’ were cramping up;
I smiled (‘wings’ also in a bit of a twist), pretending to be strong
(as Tree House Angels are),
and ignored the red exclamation marks in your dimples
while your tiny feet click-clacked away,
down the bamboo ladder steps.
You looked up, and let go of my hand—even now I lick my fingers, child,
hoping to taste sweet-sweat Kit-Kat,
instead of nicotine.