Joan of Arc
I wanted to just play my silly-girl part,
But I'm heavy with visions, old from the start;
I wanted kisses, dresses, a canopy bed--
But I am holy and lonely Joan instead.
I hear voices, which are my poems.
I see saints, which are my better impulses.
I have my horse, whose soft brown nostrils flare,
My sword and my cross and my short-shorn hair;
The sun bakes down, my saddle creaks
And it goes on like this for weeks...and weeks.
I know the night, which is my sister.
I know the want for a woman, which is my sentence.
What can anyone do to me, or do for me?
They've already reduced me to smoke and glory;
But inside my armor, I've re-formed and I sear
And I'll smoulder like this for years...and years.
I love the high grass and the red-winged blackbird.
I long for a French girl and la fin de la guerre.
I only wanted some charm and some looks,
Never my face in old history books;
No statue all pigeon-->-bleeped-<-, stood in the park,
Not this lonely and burning sweet bitch Joan of Arc.
