St. Giles: Huguenot Firing Practice

St. Giles: Huguenot Firing Practice

James Scannell McCormick

Monastery of St.-Gilles-du-Gard, 1562

God? God don’t look like that! [….] He’s a spirit. No man shall see his face.
— O’Connor

Thou shalt not make to thee – their arquebuses float
On forked supports; as if from a stye or mote,
They squint – any graven image – to sight
A crowded tympanum; or any likeness – they light

Their powder – of any thing. A burst of stone,
And the Magi are faceless. Again, and Christ on His throne
Loses a hand pierced by a nail, as a stray
Arrow pierced St. Giles’s hand as it lay

On the flank of the hind – hunted, heated – he’d fed
For years. But now? St. Benedict’s sons have fled –
Or flown, savvy ravens – and left behind
The hermit’s cleaned bones. And they’re one in mind

As aim, these marksmen: Who’d live for the Word must kill
For it, too. As the air grows sharp with smoke and chill,
The sky takes the sun as a hind might take a sole
Apple, offered by hand: warily. Whole.

Note: The epigraph is from “Parker’s Back.”

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James Scannell McCormick
Poet & Teacher

James’ third book of poems is First of Pisces (Kelsay Press).  He lives and teaches college English in Rochester, Minnesota.

Photography by Santiago Mitre