dear joan | Sophie J. K. Scott

my maid of orléans. you haven’t replied to my words
since may. i fear you don’t want to know what the angels

and i were discussing over breakfast. we have such
gallant tongues. you used to lend them an ear, too

but it’s a wonder you heard us with all that chainmail
breathing into your neck. i miss when you had a cherub’s

face, before your father tried to weave joan into some man’s
fable. was it their trickery that carved you into something

coarse? or was it the way you led that war. you raged
through those battlefields like the river loire. you were

so pretty as a pageboy. you always hated that, but my
divine eyes never wavered. nor did my voice. i gave you

michael. i gave you catherine. i gave you margaret. i gave
you all the deities and all their sweetest murmurs. i haven’t

stopped sending my word down to earth. i coaxed you all
through rouen. i was the englishman who gave you the

blinking cross you tucked in your dress. i still blink at you
now, though you’re thrice burnt through. though your ashes

tear up and down the seine. though you have no neck &
no ears & no tongue. though you have none of this, but

the memory of a stubborn mouth that crowed out i die
through you. i died through you. & the flames spat your feet.

Sophie J.K. Scott is a history student studying at Cardiff University and drinking lots of tea.

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