Sacre Coeur, 1942

An exit sign glows above the cathedral door
and he feels his way along the edges,
wooden pews smooth and cool,
he lowers himself to the granite floor
in the center of an aisle.

His jewish grandmother would faint
to see him here- her hands fluttering
like worried butterflies, concern
etching her forehead--

The ceilings arch pale into
the distance, airy white marble
columns like spun sugar,
a fairy palace.

His elbows rest on the floor
and he tips his head back,
cavernous moon-room striped
with colored light, silent
and flickering, beacon
of holy hope and horror.

In this delicate cave of peace
on this hill here above
occupied Paris- food
for the boy, hungry for more.