At église saint-roch

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Ducking into église saint-roch I shake off the demons,
Safe in here surrounded by stony Angels and dead mens bones.

The doorway its own station of the cross, cardboard lined and disinfected.
The confessional silently awaits my truth, and wait it shall.

Joan of Arc brandishes her fire forged anger, she, raised on a plinth of
invisible prayer,
I diminish before her, a Saint that burned so well so pure in flame.

And then there is Jesus there is always Jesus, born bloody from the womb to calvary.
A sunburst of cherubs adorns the scene, yet in the shadows still the crown of thorns.

I fumble a candle alight with fingers cut from whisky glass and the thighs of whores,
Forgive me Lord, forgive me Lord, I am not yours, I am not yours.

And the Street still waits, beyond the grasp of glory gapes its welcome jaws,
through the wastrels fumes falling back to earth, I am yours I’m always yours.

© Wolfgar 2019

2 thoughts on “At église saint-roch

  1. David, I find this one of your most powerful poems. Throughout is smug opulence and your refutation of all that it supposedly stands for – beautifully contrasted with the last two stanzas, which is, if my book learning in correct, what it was supposed to redeem, accept and forgive in the first place. D

    Like

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