I wanted to touch her gently,
and then to enter her—a lover,
I, and all those shepherd boys of Domremy,
I, and all those soldiers fighting for her flag.
“Forgive me, Maid of Orleans,”
I roared before I licked her ankles. “It’s
my nature to destroy the ones
who come too close to me.”
She said “Your flames won’t singe my cross” and held
two twigs against her breast. She said
“a cloud of angels told me so.”
I laughed, a sad, involuntary crackle,
and suddenly she wore the face
of a naive teenage seamstress, not
the mighty visage of the general
who led the charge against the English Lion.
I wrapped around the makeshift cross,
but Saint Joan’s angels told the truth:
her cross stood strong. Joan began to burn,
and she prayed for Bishop Cauchon,
the hypocrite who tried her as a witch.
She prayed for her Dauphin, the spineless man
she crowned. She prayed for England, her enemy
who demanded ransom, for her beloved France
who wouldn’t pay, and for every back-scratching,
courtroom-entrapping, money-grubber in the crowd.
Enraged, I wanted to run through the street, raze
their church, their homes, the entire city of Rouen.
I stayed to touch her gently
and shield her from the crowd.
She shrieked “Don’t think I blame you, Fire.
You can’t help it that you’re so hot,”
and she was right. I couldn’t help myself.
Becoming large, I entered her, ravaged her, loved her.
from Still, There’s a Glimmer