Sunday, January 3, 2010

St. Genevieve (patron saint of Paris)

He holds your head underwater and the golden cross

around your neck clatters against your teeth.

Your hair, spread like a frond, your hands, clenched tight

behind your back, fingernails imprinting skinny moons

on your palms. The man’s touch on the back of your head

radiates with a holy fire. You feel it searing

straight through your skin and on to your heart,

which flutters with the same rhythm as the wheat in Nanterre.

You fill your lungs with home.

There is no need to panic.

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