Sainte-Chapelle
For my mother
i. un
She sucked lemons to find the French “r”—
elle parlait la langue des citrons
and when she finally left Africa, swore
she’d see Notre Dame. She came north
by way of Egypt, crossed the Mediterranean
and took a train to Paris. This was the moment,
à Paris le soleil citron
when her directions failed. She turned left instead
of turning right. An accident.
Encased within le Palais de Justice,
near la Conciergerie, doorway to the guillotine,
she stumbled onto the French words
for Holy Vault and was arrested by the sight.
ii. deux
She packed no lemons for the second trip—
Sainte-Chapelle, s’il vous plaît
to the taxi driver, who ignored her French
but took gestured directions on a map.
Security was tight. Les gendarmes waved
their wands and asked politely for her coat—
Madame, enlevez votre manteau.
She led the way up round stairs
into a reliquary of red-blue light,
vitraux rouges et bleus,
derrière, le soleil
that once housed a crown of thorns,
stolen during la Révolution
when the chapel housed, not light,
but filing cabinets in some plebeian capacity.
The windows were saved from vandals’ eyes
by those obscuring coats of papered shelves.
An accident. She turned around
in that nave of color and thanked fate.
© M. Frost
The creative work of M. Frost has appeared in Little Patuxent Review, Eye to the Telescope, Sow’s Ear, The Hopkins Review, Camas, and many other venues, including a chapbook publication, Cow Poetry, from Finishing Line Press.
The Loch Raven Review 