Sisters of the Marais

 

 

Marais, Paris

 

1300

 

Sister Fleur is a medieval nun whose convent is located in

the Marais, a Jewish district of Paris.  Fleur struggles in

an intimate relationship with God, the lover.  Her short, yet

vivid, poems also describe her experiences as mother to a

unique Messiah figure:  little Blanche, handicapped and

loved.

 

Sister Fleur

 

At the age of my first bloods, my nipples like short wicks, the

breasts white tallow.  His hands raised above the altar of my

chest.  "In a womb of time, I shall heal away this deep forlorn,"

He said.  Then He moved inside me, gasping for breath.

 

His light a stiff candle:  for in the beginning there is shadow and

lust. 

 

                                               **

 

God always an old root took deep root.  I grew like a pale

fruit.  I was skin and light and seeds.

 

Sister Chloe bore flowers to the altar.  Her hands trembled

among the daisies.

 

                                              **

 

Night fell like a wet curtain.  He was fond of rain.  Soft it was

like a church whisper.  The smell of the barnyard and new

baskets of grain.  His touch was damp when He opened me.  I

bloomed low like an early flower.  His hands were petal-stained. 

 

                                              **

 

The wind was solemn, did not love us gentle in his arms.  Still, I

heard Him breathing in the dark.  Then a prayer raised in song:

"My Kingdom come, My will be done..." He crooned.

 

He set me among sisters who muttered among themselves, slim

virgins He gathered at the waste of the moon.

 

                                              **

 

Last night He came in dreams to find me.  "Dry your tears," He

said.  He held me to His bony chest against a handsome tree.

Then He offered bonbons.  "For you, dear," He said.  "For you,

my Lady."

 

                                              **

 

It was morning.  Roosters doodle dooed beneath a hard flat

moon.  He was out there in the large dark making candles.  "Let

there be light," He crooned.  I could see Him from the bars of

my room.   He wore the dress of the sisters and hobbled against

a small broom.  God swept shadows and ashes too.

 

                                             **

 

The ghosts of my ancestors emptied themselves into sleep.

Mother, great-with-child, her belly hatching.  Father balanced

on martyr's feet.  And God turning tarot cards, predicting love:

my Lord, crucified knight in armor, his chest plate rusty

with blood. 

 

                                            **

 

When the fullness of time did come I wore tampons of soft

wool.  (Egyptian women used rolls of soft papyrus.)

 

Now milk sticky and sour on my bosom, inside I am a wet rose.

For God has planted many roots to grow.

 

                                           **

 

The moon crossed the River Seine like a melancholy woman.

She sunk her light into the waters there.  The night was dim, but

there were signs in the sky.  And I heard Him breathing in the

blue air.

 

                                            **

 

"Domine Deus, Rex coelestis, Deus Pater, omnipotent:" my

sisters raised their hearts.

 

They saw me there in the shadows humming out of tune.  My

wimple a limp petal.  My gown a black bloom.

 

 

 

 

©2008 April Bulmer