SANCTUARY

by Catherine Gonick

after the 1939 film The Hunchback of Notre Dame

I still hear him shout the word

see his jagged teeth and crazy eyes

 

feel his hard arms, our jarring swoop,

the arc we cut through air

 

rope-riding back from scaffold

to Cathedral of Our Lady

 

he the ugly, I the lovely

swinging through the laughing

 

crowd of high and low

that watched him pound up stairs

 

hold my outstretched body

high above his head

 

a trophy 

in a pale linen shift

 

My eyes demurely closed

on every sinner in the square

 

I was only acting

pretending to be the girl

 

Inside I was exulting

two outcasts had escaped

 

and I don’t remember what happened

after the shot

 

only the crew touching

his padded hump for luck

 

that year when as now

rescue was everything

 

Catherine Gonick has published poetry in journals including The New Verse News, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Pedestal, and The Orchards Poetry Journal. Her work has also appeared in anthologies including in plein air, Grabbed, Support Ukraine, and Rumors, Secrets & Lies: Poems About Pregnancy, Abortion and Choice. She has a book of poetry forthcoming from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions and lives in the Hudson Valley where  she works in a company devoted to slowing the rate of global warming.

JE SUIS CHARLIE

by Mary R. Finnegan

Cartoon by Tom Tomorrow at The Daily Kos

I stand outside Notre Dame

quietly, for a moment of silence,

after a lifetime of silence.

Je suis Charlie

I write my rebuke in 140 characters

for the hashtag 

is mightier than the sword.

Je suis Charlie

I unite with all mankind

to strongly condemn

this horrific shooting

or whatever the masses are saying.

Je suis Charlie

I do all these things from over here,

and not too loudly, and only

among friends and infidels 

on the internet and possibly

with the saucy courage of alcohol

in a dark bar 

on a flag draped street somewhere 

in an undisclosed location

because I am only 

looking at blurred cartoons

and pixelated slaughter.

I am only in my pajamas

complaining of the cold

and the price of oil,

keeping my head 

below the parapet.

I am only 

wearing these boots

to wade through

the frigid streets because

Je ne suis pas Charlie.

For when the liar speaks

I do not wish to agree

so I say nothing

Je ne parle pas

when the threat is made

I do not wish to disagree

so I remain silent

Je me tais

for when prayer is called

I do not wish to offend

so I believe nothing

Je ne crois rien

because when the scimitar is raised

above my slender white neck

I do not wish to lose the head

that has done nothing

said nothing

believed nothing.

Non, Je ne suis pas Charlie.

I do not agree 

or disagree.

I do not offend.

I do not blaspheme.

Can you not see

I am on my knees?

Je ne suis pas Charlie.

Je ne suis personne.

Ça va.

Ça va, oui, ça va?

Mary R. Finnegan is an operating room nurse in the Philadelphia area who also writes poetry and short stories.

PARIS 1974, 2015

by Martha Deed

Photo by Ian Berry

What has the sun said to you, my child ‒

that the world is a dangerous place

and this is a day to stay in bed?

But, No. It said

Do you see the shine of morning dew

on the cobblestone streets

and the spires of Notre Dame

kissing the clouds

The cafes bursting with coffee

and croissants in the hands of kids

on their way to school

on their way to work?

This is a day

the sun said

to take a good walk

along the quay

This is a day to look for a book

to visit the market of live birds

to hear them call

to admire their feathers

shining in the sun

the light flashing on them like sparklers

not like bullets at the newspaper

not like flash grenades

at the grocery store

This I tell you:

Because you heeded the sun,

you will live another day

your survival as accidental

as those held hostage

as those who died

at your grocery store

you did not visit

because you were taking 

a walk in the sun 

In this poem, Martha Deed has woven the close call she had in Paris in 1974 or 1975 when Millie was a baby.  They usually went to the news stand for the Sunday paper at 10:30 AM.  Regular as clockwork.  But that day, Martha simply thought to take a walk to a farther away news stand instead.  Carlos, the Jackal, had planted a bomb at her usual place, and it exploded, killing people, as Martha pushed Millie in her stroller down the Blvd Saint-Germaine.