The Maid of Orleans

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


Delicate hands,

loving, soft,

till soil, sew cloth,

like a baby bird in the early hours of dawn.

 

Snap the bones between my fists,

unhinge my jaw,

and pick the feathers from my teeth.

 

I was not made for spinning wool.

 

Rose branches trace my wrists.

My body is lying still in father's garden,

but I am on the front lines.

Haunted by angels,

I must witness my own country's destruction.

Daydreams give way

to perfect battle plans.

 

Soft hands caress my skull,

weaving in and out of golden hair,

"my little girl," I hear my mother's voice say.

I spit the words from my mouth like blood,

the remnants of red staining my teeth,

the taste of copper thick on my tongue.

I contain multitudes,

my body, large enough to house each saint

lovingly painted upon chapel ceilings,

I am not a child.

I am not allowed to be.

 

Cold sweat trickles from my forehead,

I lay awake in bed, eyes wide open,

I am not here.

When I return to my body,

heart pounding, stomach heavy,

I know what must be done.

 

There is a power that rests in my bones,

fairytales floating behind my eyes,

I can See everything so clearly,

But no one is ready to listen.

 

Tears stream down my cheeks,

my favorite story time figures come to the rescue,

place a sword in my hand,

my country is dying.

 

The king will march beside me,

spinning tales of my vision,

my power,

my sight.

All of France will know my name.

 

Call me a saint,

call me a heretic,

a teenager seeking rebellion.

I am grace, I am divine, I am woman,

I am soldier.

 

In battle, I dance

guided by my most worshipped saints and angels,

we will win,

I have seen it.

 

Men are slaughtered before my eyes,

but it is nothing in comparison to the threats

that curl in the back of my mind.

The saints send me visions and dreams and nightmare in equal turns.

Death, decay, destruction,

and once, a single flame.

A warning sign.

 

Non-believers in the street,

sticks and stones,

their calls fall upon deaf ears.

It is not my fault,

they do not recognize a saint when they see one.

 

Heresy,

accused in trial by the men I aim to protect,

asking for evidence of divinity, I answer neither yes or no

I am neither guilty nor un-guilty,

My only crime is faith.

 

Flames, licking at my ankles, inch by inch

until my sight goes dark.

 

My name will be a prayer one day.

 


Submitted: July 25, 2018

© Copyright 2021 g. rima. All rights reserved.

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