Little Child

He pulls the blanket taut
against the tucked corners
to his shoulders, his neck,
his chin, his nose.
Eyes framed by cloth and hair
scan the twisted hands and fingers
the moon sends grasping for him.
His heart thrashes in his chest,
beating against his ribcage
as he finds himself cornered
by the unknown.
The startled scream is answered
by his mother
whose soft lullaby and gentle touch
pulls down the shades of his eyes
and the fear from his mind.

He presses his face to the door,
tracing spirals of grain with a finger,
and looks at the shoulders,
the neck, the nose,
a face framed by the circle of glass
and deadbolt and chain,
and twisted into a grimace
by the long beard, the long cloth.
He feels the safety in his hands,
the soft click and gentle weight;
the metallic reassurance
pulls the fear from his mind.