Adam Vines

NOON MASS AT SACRÉ COEUR

“Chut, s’il vous plaît,” the nun says,

her mouth stretching to the starched wimple

that etches the bones

of her alabaster face: “chut, chut--mass.”

Another tourist dips his sweaty hand

into the marble stoup, flicking the water

toward his son.

Townspeople slip

through the visitors to the nave-- 

some with pressed shirts,

thin dresses covered

with flour.

When the nineteen-ton

Savoyarde Bell

silences the streets,

the altar boys lean toward the sacristy;

the priest stands, chanting French and Latin.

The celebrants line up beneath the mosaic

of Joan of Arc

and St. Michael fawning over Christ’s hands.

I saw the saints’ adoring looks

shine on the faces of the Three Shades of death.

Admiring their fists,

the brothers offer gifts for the damned

drowning in Rodin’s “Gates of Hell.”

As I stand behind a velvet rope,

a cup is raised, offered hand to hand,

its polished sides reflecting their chosen lips.