(Chapel of Bones)
Decomposition from flesh to bone
in the absence of a sealed box
takes only 8 to 12 years.
Likely when the friars proposed
disinterring the remains of thousands
from the overcrowded cemeteries
occupying desirable real estate in Evora,
they knew what they would find.
Who are these small dark women who sit all day
in the drafty cavern of the Church of St. Francis,
with its extravagant gilding and vaulted nave
long as a football field,
making change for the admission
(no credit cards accepted)
before unfastening the velvet rope from its clasp
to usher us in?
They nod knowingly towards the interior chapel
the Capella dos Ossos,
where the bones of five thousand corpses
stacked mosaically
femur upon femur
line the walls
pave the archways
and support the chapel in
pillars made of bone.
Rows of skulls alternate
striping the tableau.
Some stare outward
empty eye sockets
nose holes
and incomplete cloven smiles
frozen in eerie perpetuity.
Suspended from the wall
two corpses dangle
dessicated and limp
adult and child
heads bent downwards
in repose of eternal prayer.
Visitors cluster here to snap pictures
and groan with nervous laughter
as they wander briefly
agape in yellow sunlight streaming
mesmerized for a moment by the symmetry
of the trowel trails where the cement cradles
the embedded bones
before stumbling back outside
to gray drizzle or blinding sunlight
back to tour buses
or group leaders
where they talk of lunch or shopping.
Though they pass the inscription overhead
they do not read or heed or even contemplate
the caution left by the friars for generations to come
we are bones that here await yours.
Only the small dark women who sit all day
at the entrance to the chapel
properly embrace the memento mori.
The Finger Literary Journal, Winter, 2020
Elise Chadwick 