The angel stands in your room when you are a child. Its presence is a dense swelling in the dark. You lie in bed. You are afraid of angels. You sleep. You wake. The angel wants its whisper swirling in your ear. If it gets the chance, the angel leans over the bed. You wake. You sleep. Your pale ear glistens in the dark, a whorl of petals parading the tunnel to your child brain. Cover your ear. You have been chosen. The angel is going to tell you the secret of heaven. Cover your ear. You are just a child. You bury your ear in the quilt. The angel never leaves you. You sleep. You wake. One ear in the pillow, one ear in the quilt. The angel breathes. What else could you do? The quilt is a field of tiny pink flowers. You are just a child.
