Joan of Arc Has Died.

i have this recurring dream i go up in smoke beside joan of arc

but before we get all immortal and crispy we have a moment to chat.

the guy tying me up, his face changes every time, but most recently

he’s been that slapstick side character from that show i watched

with my mom as a kid. he’s much gentler than he should be, but then again

last night he tugged so hard he left scars—or he would’ve, if i’d lived.

i asked joan how things were going, lately, and she answered,

“this is exactly how things were foretold to proceed,” to which i said

something about her dodging the question. she laughed like a beast

caged and said “i merely satisfied what you really desired to impugn.”

after that the man moved to stack the last of the timber around her

little body and i wanted to ask if it hurt, the weight of it all

but she had the widest eyes. she was the calmest spook i’d ever seen.

“it does,” she said, to the sparking air between us. “or at least

i think it is supposed to.” at this point i couldn’t move my legs, anymore

my arms tight and wrapped far away from my heartbeat. i looked down

at the man and i said, “hey, dude, nice to see you again. how’re the kids?”

he double-knotted joan’s rope one more time and said, “my youngest

got into that collegiate program i was telling you about,” and i said,

“wow, man, that’s great! tell her congrats for me,” because i had not

gotten around to remembering his name or hers. “will do,” he said

and then he stepped back to observe his handiwork. “it’ll do,” he said

and i shivered and i was embarrassed, because joan, she wasn’t making

a move of any sort. just staring straight ahead like it was all a dream.

like she knew what was really going on, here, and refused to be fooled.

the man lit a torch and the spectators must have smelled it on the

air because they swarmed in out of nowhere, a hive of gossipers

taking notes to best describe the singe of our sinful hands

to their ravenous neighbours over tomorrow’s bout of laundering.

joan never said a word, not even when the man touched the tip

of the fire to her pyre and kept his mouth shut thin against a prayer.

not even when the flame crept up my own shins and the immolation

took over my exaltation and lit it up bright blue and used it to scream.

i always think it will hurt more, this shrinking of my body against

my body. i always anticipate a sharp but what i get is a nothing, once

the fire hits my heart. what i get is a cracking eye and a stock-still

knowing there is nothing i can do but use the last dredges

of whatever was me to turn to joan and smile even though

she never sees it, because she never stops staring straight ahead into

climbing flame and murmuring, “this is exactly how things were always going to be.”