A Poem by Rishi Dastidar

Melted cockerel

At Notre-Dame

Selfies under a crown of thorns. An American
explains the cockerel to the tour guide; I presume
she curses him silently in a third language.
A girl in lace, eyes candle-wicked shut, prays

to Saint Joan. Her flag is sharp; god I’d like
to believe; how do you do it, turn it on like a tap?
Always, They text, with these questions,
when you step into this gilded Time Machine.

I can read your mind; so I know you said Luther
was right. You’d like to lose the fear, disappear?
Faith is a texture. Buy the rosary, pretend it’s a

bracelet; enjoy the crucifix digging into your
veins, gently. Feeling alive isn’t the sin you
think it is, but believing it trumps all is.

Rishi Dastidar’s third collection, Neptune’s Projects (Nine Arches Press), was longlisted for the Laurel Prize, and a poem from it was included in The Forward Book of Poetry 2024. His latest publication is A hobby of mine (Broken Sleep Books).