Eric Stiefel
Writer | New York, NY
Cathedral
It’s easy to forget how still the air feels,
looking up, the stone towers blocking out the sun.
I would like to think that the light from the glass stains
the air around it, but it doesn’t. Men sell posters
and little figurines on the streets by the Seine.
The colossus stretches itself over the river while
the glass drains colors through its mouth.
Sometimes I like to stand very still and curl my hands
inside my pockets. I want to hear the organ howling
like a brass throat. I want to feel a coarse light.
None of the shadows moves when the bell rings. Nothing
else holds its posture—not the trees on the street, the iron
ground into the sidewalk, the birds with their horrible beaks.
Bell Tower
Black birds hang within the painted world
watching from the bridge, the bell tower,
still, not pecking at the slots between the apiaries.
Rusted locks, blackberries ground into the turpentine
and soil. Priscilla never lets her tears
hit the ground, never let the dollmaker
repaint his canvas.
The birds watch like echoes. No one ever
cleaned the hallways or the armoires, no one
ever opened the frames. Priscilla thinks she hears
the birds say follow the other ghosts.
No one else haunts the marble or the resin, not
without numbing from the hollow. The snow covers
even the little scars beneath the paint.