A long time since its construction and centuries longer since its namesake reigned,
its triple steeples still rise above the square, dappled by the morning sun
as hordes of sleepy tourists and locals who might not miss them much
if they took a day off line up for their morning pastries and au lait,
and already outside the commotion is building, the music of the spheres
a little off key, its brassy tune clashing with the brash shouts of hucksters
out for the early mark, but as I pass through and the doors swing close
behind me, the sacred silence engulfs me, and it is indeed as if I have
crossed into the otherworld, despite the electrical wires announcing that
the church serves as current place of worship, not historical relic only,
and the plaques and boxes and racked brochures for sale
reminding all that not even here does commerce cease, and though
I’m not Catholic, I too give in—drop coins in the box and light
a candle in hope of some little glow of enlightenment, and Louis
would have presumed me innocent until his branch of the Inquisition
made its inquiries and determined otherwise, and would probably
have dealt like Jesus in the temple with the mess of humanity
out front, or had his minions do it for him, more likely. Still, as far
as medieval rulers go, he was at least less awful than his peers, and,
if we can trust the words of his friend and confidante Jean de Joinville,
a positive influence on law and religion, famous for his
charitable disposition and his possession of a fragment—
an expensive one at that—of Christ’s True Cross. These days,
that kind of belief, that kind of fervor, has waned away, but
still amid the cool white stones of its monuments, one can, for a fleeting
moment, feel the circulation of saints and spirits along the aisles
and ambulatories under the tent of colonial-colored banners.
Copyright 2019
T. Allen Culpepper