Joan – Revisited

By Elvira

“Is he the King?”
“Non”
“Is he the King?”
“Non”

Asked the martinets of La Pucelle.
“I bow before he, where is he
Dauphine —
soon to be
Le Roi:             it is Charles”

Never knowing,           trusting “the Voices”
she wove authenticity
The Sword.                  Found in Santé Catherine – du –
Fie bois”
became her Joyeuse
her Excalibur
to head            a holy war
to outs “les goddams”
from holy France
Peasant,          armored beyond
recognition, knowing, as
Jhesus, that total darkness
was her lot
She lead the Bastard               to succor
Orleans . . .
smited.            Bloodied.         Sold to
English hands:
Thirty pieces of silver
fought a saint
a call to Arms — :
Not a sheep’s bray —
but Holy France
would again be French

The pyre built high:
no pity shown by
the Beefeaters —
SHE must die – and her cult
crushed, as her bones

No heathen No heretic, Knowing
“the Voices”    proclaimed
her death
Alone.              No priest to comfort
only flames of
HELL itself
No pity.            Save one:

A cross             so dearly wished, given
as flames consume her
flesh

Did she cry?    Did HE cry
in the darkness?
Now a human shroud
passed into charcoal
Jhesus Maria
the Crystals     remain                        flow to
the ocean —
Solvent green.

. . .       to resurge as:  Marianne
the Oriflamme
that lighted
Gaels
through
the devastation of human wars.

May 2016