Guardian Angel

The church basement nursery
down a cool flight of stairs
was a wide-open room wherein
colorful toys were scattered
and wooden cribs lined
gaily decorated walls.

One one such wall this picture hung:
An angel hovering gently over
a boy leading his sister
across a swing bridge.
The planks clacking,
the water swirling below.

The babysitter is soft
and smells like flowers.
She gathers and hush holds me.
Sister Esther gently snoring behind
wooden slats, a sentinel fan
buzzing at her damp dark head.
Across the room a crackling box
with a large warmly lit dial.

“Listen,” says the babysitter
nodding to the singing box:
A woman’s voice, rich and
warm like roasted chestnuts
carried the melody, gilded
by a clarion tenor, he
harmonizing like pure gold.

Trying not to appear bewildered;
I was proud of my parents singing
but I knew that he would beat me
and bash me again and again
and I knew she was safely lost to us;
could not be found, was not there
behind murky green eyes.

And yet the words of their song:
“I sing because I’m happy
I sing because I’m free
For his eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me.”