It's just poetry, it won't bite

In the Church of St. Giles

05.17.19 Posted in today's words by

Marc Tretin’s most recent poem to appear here was “Zipporah Addresses the Blossoms, Whose Music She Cannot Sing, But Moved Her to Make a Wig for Her Bald Mother” (March 2019)

In the Church of St. Giles
By Marc Tretin

the priests jest, that its chopping block was called
the Maiden, for so many men lost their head
to her. A poor man would wait for her in a walled-
off room to be killed by his penitentiary bed.
No one would hear his disembodied words.
In the Square used for marriages, a knight
would await guillotining with a nonchalance
that pleased the throng who would eagerly herd
up close, to see his brave, stoic silence.
His blood, from his cleanly cut neck, would splatter
and redden the ox-cart worn cobblestones.
Some reflex mouthed words that mattered—
but not to his still warm meat and bones.
Do such disturbances of the air outlive death
—an epiphany from expelled breath.

One Response to “In the Church of St. Giles”

  1. Something to think about.

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