I stand in Notre Dame de Paris facing Jerusalem as I had when my soul was older and burgundy and clanked upon these stones. Within this portal, a girl lingered as the statue of a girl. Her hair is as it was then, a great living wing steadying for flight. And, though she would attend church with the children and sing piously and prettily, brittlely, our home and gardens of neat rows prophesying petite-fille champagne roses would always be her Bethlehem, Jerusalem and Gethsemane; while I, in the revenant dark, revisited the saintly, the devious and the dead, leaning again upon my sword before Damascus Gate in the sweet stench of first light.
La portail (de la Vierge) [#29]
© 2009 Fammerée
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Richard Fammerée
fammeree@att.net
director@universeofpoetry.org
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