poem/ I Shall Move to Paris

I Shall Move to Paris

 

If ever you should leave me,

I shall move to Paris.

I shall live in the shadow of Notre Dame.

Her gargoyles and grotesques

will cast their magic upon my pain.

And in return for their comic grimaces

I shall smile. 

And be healed.

 

I shall walk the length of her nave

Hand in hand the ghosts of my Christian past.

The fleshy, ink-stained fingers of Thomas,

The fragile, mystical palm of the Maid of Orleans,

The pious, bejeweled glove of Louis, king and Saint.

Courage and spirit

shall flow through the centuries,

And ease my tightly fisted anguish.

 

I shall gaze upon her Rose window,

And rising toward her spires,

the sun of a thousand years,

shall cast color and light upon

my wound.

Red and green and gold

shall seek the circumspect glisten of tear.

And warm the cold, Gothic stones

Of ache.

 

I shall enter her cavernous chapels,

where once the peasant lit a votive.

The sound of centime,

and whispered, daring entreaty;

a hushed chorus arising.

The bell tower shall catch my prayer.

And mingled with the peasant's,

It shall ring the tarnished bronze chords

Of hope.

 

If ever you should leave me,

I shall move to Paris.

I shall live in the shadow of Notre Dame.

And there, where pilgrim and king

laid their burden before the feet of angels,

I shall place the tender mercies of our love.

And I shall be healed.

 

PS... He left me. I didn't move to Paris. And still, I healed.