Maryanne Chrisant
Paris, Burning
We are in Paris when Notre Dame burns.
We stand on the Left Bank of the Seine
and turn—
Warm in the mid-April cold
as across the dark river the fire burns,
breaking the relic timber bones.
The fractured roof cracks.
A night wind carries smoke gone black.
We hear the falling stones.
Paris is my city by choice,
not birth. Above the crowd and noise,
I hear my asking voice,
“Shall I pray?”
To you, the fire, the smoke, the wind—
“God won’t help,” you say.
Faith isn’t easy. I pray anyway.
This night is one of our last together.
At the apartment, our sons watch American TV
while we stand close in soft April weather,
breathing the same thick air.
This is the last time we agree.
We watch in sadness as Notre Dame burns.
This night could have been so fair.