Romance

We certainly loved you,
Marie. You knew,
Didn’t you? Do you remember?

One evening
We set off at night,
Arthème and I, going quietly to see you
Beneath the apse of the summer sky, as at church.

There was a light and you were reading.

We kept the drawings
With three crayons, and the birds in blue ink
That you made.

Ah, Marie, you sang so well!
It was during the time
When you were happy, at the Sisters’ school,
When the Procession of pale flowers
Sang in the desert of Sunday.
Trembling
I was near you, who were all in white.

The organ spoke of shadows . . .
On the altar the blue day hung.
Through wounds in stained glass, the call of the breeze
Fused with a loud hum of onyx, drove the fire
Of the candles toward you, tipsy
With light and sacred songs.