Conviction's Closet

Each night, my intercessions ended    
with the prayer that night, itself, would not.    
   
Devotions discharged, I'd dive into
my mateless twin bed, above which hung    
a fading portrait of Cassiel,    
Archangel of solitude and tears.    
   
Unwarmed by winter's sallow sun,    
frost still clung to my bedside window.    
Night slowly surrendered its shadows.    
Exhaust-colored ice formed and reformed.    
   
When I think of my Ohio home,    
I think of Legos and Lincoln Logs    
littering the floor of my closet,  
mundane toys posing mortal danger.    
   
Down below, Evelyn Bernice moved,    
stalking one of her five, lost children,    
ever in season.  Empty-handed    
bellower here, all-ears lurker there.    
   
She was keen for unnatural noise.    
One toy crunched underfoot shattered hope.    
E.B.'s ears cocked, her hips pivoted.    
The huntress preyed even as her game prayed.    
   
I flinched at the sound of her footsteps,    
as their quickening pace slowed my pulse.    
Flinch hard and often enough and your    
shaking slows.  Shamed, you become solid.    
   
Struck, my small body a tuning fork.
All overtones of hope bled away,    
my waking world decayed and dampened.  
The angels E.B. spoke of steered clear.    
   
Evelyn Bernice saw to it that    
we never lacked for something -- to cry about.    
Evelyn Bernice, true psychopomp,    
kept safe behind faux anodyne eyes.    
   
Things change; closet becomes chrysalis,    
The once fearful boy, now the faithless man.