1.
They are burning Joan.
They are always burning Joan;
there's always a pyre ready
for a woman who believes,
who acts,
who commands—
even at rest,
you can see a flicker in their eyes
like flames,
ready to consume.
They kindle between beats of your heart.
2.
My sword has grown heavy.
My sword has grown heavy,
and I have at some point
abandoned my shield—
better moving faster than blocking,
and I can take the hit,
I can
I always can.
I've taken hits for all of us for years;
haven't I?
Gets blurry sometimes.
I can't remember life before the sword.
Or before the fire.
I grow weary, shield-sister,
shield-brother,
and can find no rest.
3.
They burn us.
We kindle,
we burn,
we char,
we howl—
we do not know
if we will rise phoenix-like
until it's over.
Every time, we enter blind.
4.
Some essential part of me
has burned,
has passed through flames uncounted—
self-preservation, perhaps,
or sleep,
or memory—
calcified,
crumbling in my fist.
Chalk-bone-dust
to spiral up my arms.
This is my armor now.
5.
I howl in my sleep, sometimes.
I dream of fire.
I am a burnt offering,
a sacrifice,
reviving,
jolting back to the war—
no rest.
6.
My sword is my home.
The pyre is my home.
The war is my home,
and the war is never over.
I will end alone,
with no one to count my scars.
7.
Or we may yet prevail.
We may prevail,
and I may walk home,
hundreds of miles home,
to hearth and farm
and people who knew me before the sword.
I may grow out my hair
and sleep beneath a tree
and tell stories;
and every story will end
"and here I am,
still singing."