At Notre Dame
Those tattered rags in a glass case
belonging to a nameless saint
those cherubs in ceiling corners
looking down on us
If I stood behind the pulpit
and prayed out loud
while looking up into the palm
of a stained glass dome,
whose to say I haven’t stood here before,
even before these marble floors
were grouted and laid?
We learn about dying from the dead
in the form of a chain, of one long
chain, outside the circle of linear minds.
We all once knew the secret handshake,
the firm grip of hands
outside of time.
So tell me, dear Cynthia: who’s to say
these clothes aren’t mine?