From the new collection, We Are Bone


St. Sulpice

At St Sulpice, I repeat my ritual. My last ten Euro so I can light candles and sit

a while. I remember the story Dine told me, of how Lawrence cried a big damp stamp

onto the stone, in that place – the grotto where Mary is holding

her dead son in her arms. On one side of her, the angel looks to heaven,

on the other, to the earth. How, here, when he was a little boy, his mother

brought him for his conversion from Judaism to Catholicism, and how, later,

in his atheism, it was the one place he could grieve for her.

I have come to ask for miracles,

and so, I sit to remember. A grandmother appears. She brings three small

children; she is teaching them to pray. The black woman beside me weeps and

weeps and I am sorry I have no hanky to offer her and she rejects

my hand, but offers me matches.

I light candles, lighting one off the other as if the light of one person spreads

that way and it feels right, until one burns so bright so and so fast the container

for the votive goes in flames – so bright, so fast, so wild and full, it burns out

far too soon and I am suddenly inconsolable.,_Paris

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