Streets with Every Name

Autumn has spoken with burnt tongue

Will you listen?

Shuttered against the fear that frosts

closed windows, the smell of rage

exploding into shards that coat a city

in cinders and bone, an old woman

wears a cloak of feathers, fleur de lys,

walks her dog down the avenue with

a musical name and cries for the world.

The gargoyles of Notre Dame leave

their sentry posts too late. The street

with a philosopher’s name shudders at

sounds like firecrackers and ice

breaking, then freezes, a chaos of torn

limbs and faces with bullet holes where

smiles had once resided.

 La Liberté forges ahead with her crown

of stars and blood on her lips, unbowed.

Marchons, marchons, urge the spirits

of the fallen. Marc Chagall’s fiddler still

plays on the roof. Can you hear

the music of lovers drifting above

the guns and smoke. 

Will you listen?