Liber Pauperum

Liber Pauperum

There are three fine sculpted archways on Notre Dame's facade;

twenty-eight carved kings and saints, hollow-eyed, stand guard.

Our guide is telling stories of the martyr Saint Denis,

who preached a pleasing sermon, severed head upon his knee.

High above the buttresses, goggling endlessly

monsters sit in solitude, reflecting my ennui.

I trace the stones to Point Zero and scuff the coins around,

perplexed to see the tourists casting kisses to the ground.

I stand there 'til my mother calls it's time to go inside.

We file beneath St Genevieve, her hands held flat and wide.

We're warned of active worship – we must respect the space;

We glide past congregations with much seemliness and grace.

My mother bows in silent prayer, lights candles for the dead;

fills a reel with window shots, and leaves no plaque unread.

I want to dream of gypsy tales, seek Quasimodo's ghost;

but her beauty is unparalleled – I'll remember that the most.