St. Joan of Arc, you managed to preserve your self,
died at nineteen: a virgin—
having given your self to God.
What all did he whisper to you
in the fields behind your house
as you tended to cattle and adolescent dreams?

Did he say that he was love?
Give you of his body and tell you to eat—
what ecstasy! Did he leave
stigmata on your feet and palms,
as he has done to so many other girls?

Why do men hurt that which they love?

This was your first calling,
though you were not his first.
Where you his last?

Unlike you, Joan,
I had no cattle or sheep to tend,
only the heavy solitude that is inherited
by middle children and only sons.
No fields to run through or pastures
in which to hide, only then to be found by God—
only concrete and crack-house-corned streets.

Playtime was in the basement.
There, I often danced
alone in front of a ceramic statue of Christ.
His eyes we empty, hollow,
hiding everything yet nothing.

But his eyes were always on me, so
I danced for him, giving
of my body—Eucharist incarnate.
He was always willing to watch.
Never did he look away, never
told me to stop. Always observant,
silent.

Nighttime: parents out of the house,
my face pushed into pillow and sheets,
arms and legs outstretched,
palms placed up. My body,
a human cross—juvenile crucifixion,
though I prayed long and hard
for God to save me and
give reason to my suffering!

He response: silence.
No divine intervention.

His hands we rough,
smell of smoke and taste of wine on his lips.
Told me I was special.
Like you, Joan, I was to be a vessel.
In me, he implanted his divinity.
I alone carry that burden,
knowing that, one day, it will be the death of me.

But Joan, you were the special one,
not I. God was always with you,
led you through all harm and danger
and into Heaven.
I was forsaken—a sacrificial lamb maybe.

My dream had always been of martyrdom.
Little did I know that I was destined
to play the role of victim.
Like you, Joan, I too was not spared.
But where was my God,
as I screamed and squirmed,
supplicating him to stop.

Maybe it was that he could not hear me?
Was his mind unhearing to the shrills
that one omits when skin stretches,
rips and bleeds?
Maybe it was that he did not care to?

I listened to the example of God
and learned to keep silent.
Did not speak out for the fear of being called
a heretic, a liar, insane, demented…
by those I loved.
Kept lips and eyelids shut.

I would not be burned at the stake like you, Joan,
but suffered the pains of betrayal all the same.
I was no martyr
but an outcast nonetheless.
I too now carry a cross, so
I call to you, Joan.
Tell me, how does one come to forgive
that which they fear and hate?
Be my staff and help me rise.
I have been bent over praying on knees
to a deaf God for far too long.

Your weapons were a banner, armor, an army, horse and sword.
My arms: penn, paper and this weary voice.
But I would trade mine for yours any day
if doing so came with the promise of victory
over past memories and
every man that prays on children.
I would wage a war,
its clamor so loud it wakes the dead
and God, who dreams on,
incognizant of his children calling.

Joan, will you be my saving knight,
the voice that does not abandon me at night,
in fire, burning coals or in the midst of mobs.
You don’t have to say anything just
yet.  Only, give
me fruit that will not spoil and
grace that will not slip out from my hands.

Sitting in that arm chair,
in that café,
in that kind of way that left me
almost invisible
yet still vulnerable and susceptible to
the charged pumping of espresso machines,
conversation cacophony,
overhead jazz jamboree.

Amongst all that joint discord
was, I think,
where I fist started
to believe.

Funny that we ended across
from one another—
the distance of the room diving
itself in between us.
This coffee-lounge congruity
was no coincidence
but some predestined synchronicity.
A novice spell caster’s attempt
at a love spell maybe?

Because there was something enchanting
about the manner which you wore that striped, collard shirt.
Crisscrossed lines leaving me
in a trance and under
the sorcery of your distanced presence.

Excuse me if I seemed bewitched,
but I was spellbound
by the influence of your strong chin
and soft eyes,
silver-frame glasses and full crescent of a smile.

Sitting there in that arm chair,
I could do nothing
but dream
of tasting the hot-chocolate off the corner of your lip
or the possibility of learning the essence
of your alchemy.

And you must have been a witchdoctor
because I was possessed
by the black art in your brown eyes,
voodoo in your dimples,
the smooth charm glistening off your soft lips.

Sitting there in that arm chair,
I imaged taking your clenched hands,
opening them like books.
Like a devout medieval monk,
I’d study hard those illuminated texts,
memorize the prophecy of promise
written within the lines of your palms.

Like an image of Adam and God,
the warm touch of your fingertips
would jumpstart my heart,
granting me the ability to believe.

Inspired by your mortal divinity,
I’d paint a picture of your remote beauty
and title it “Renaissance Man”
because your were
too good to be true
yet were…

A modern-day Leonardo,
with all his flaws and insecurities,
sipping commercial coffee,
reading Marx.