Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue Two

Laurie Barton

Love Note to Notre Dame

I never wanted to be Catholic, bound to stone or gargoyle, tied by reverence to reliquaries of holy bones. Never a virgin: cramps alone, no hard or warm thigh in my bed — yet I worshipped French words: Petit Pont like a thousand Gothic candelabra, heavenly verbs as jeweled as your rose window, light smacking the blackness of my small soul which longs to stroke birds at the Sunday marché — not far from your buttress and crest. That cries out for heaven, dark garden, la beauté céleste.