Sunday, May 30, 2010

St. Joan of Arc (patron of France, martyrs, captives, those ridiculed for their piety)

home is scorched earth,

red & ruddy & always aflame.

the mind wanders, loses its way,

forgets which forests have burned.

from the field, even voices sound beautiful.

all those syllables amongst the wheat.

I don’t remember where or when.

It just happened. I breathed in

and I was on the back of this white horse.

what I mean to say

is that it started snowing.

for every inch that fell,

I cut an inch of my hair off.

there are no villains here.

I promise you.

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