Nantes 4: Our Lady of L'Apres Midi, Vendredi

The Church of Notre Dame de Bon Port rose up, unexpected, itself
Somehow unsuspecting, seemingly echoing nothing
Of the Place du Sanitat. I approached
Through that field of parked cars, occupied,
Through that field of occupied parked cars,
Occupied for reasons obscured by that church rising,
Unexpected and unexpecting, it had not donned its dome
From where I stood, before I stood beneath it, before the flames,
Faces of saints, structures gone to disrepair
And somehow holy for it, the unconvincing stone portrait,
St. Joan burning, some tips of tongues of flames crumbled
And become dust like all burning, unconvincing, blessing
Dominic along the peeling paint, the ceiling saint
In decaying mural like a leper’s face and mirrored across
The altar, Esther, whose feet dissolving in giant flakes,
Slowly meeting her absolute, like any Old Testament woman should be left
Wanting nothing, but eyeing the broken stone flames
Beneath the broken, stone, unnatural feet
Beneath the broken, stone, boyish face
Of broken, stone St. Joan of Arc and broken stone,
Flames long cold, looking to her Father,
Looking past Our Mother of Arriving in Good Condition
And her crumbling, blessed dome, cracked and peeling,
Dusty and forgotten, more blessed the broken stone,
Grateful and distant humility born of dying Catholic grandeur.