Before she was Joan of Arc,
St. Joan or the Maid of Orleans,
Before she went through the assessment
Cycle of simpleton, soldier, sorceress or saint
She was a French farm girl.
I see about her about 8 years old
In the woods with her friends playing and dancing
Around the “fairy tree - that pretty tree
That blossomed in the spring but bore no fruit,
useless
As a barren woman, or a crippled man.
Around the tree I imagine a fairy ring
A near perfect circle of wildflowers or clover
That mysteriously appears to the delight of the children,
Lovers and others hungry for magic.
I hear the girls giggling and making up songs
About their neighbors but hardly casting spells or incantations.
They are barefoot, as most of the poor are,
But they are not dancing naked in the moonlight
At the tree as their older sisters might do
Praying for love or fertility.
By the time Joan is 10, her life is half-over.
She dances and sings with the others
But wrestles with her conscience.
The priest has learned of the tree and is alarmed
Has condemned it as a trinket in the Devil’s jewelry box.
A place where good girls may be seduced into witchcraft,
Lured into Satan’s bed, his concubines in Hell.
Joan cried all that Sunday after his sermon
And for much of that week as well.
She tried to be a good girl, a good Christian
She tried to stay away.
In reflection he realized that she and her friends
Talked a bit saucier, and lifted their skirts
Flouncing about
When they danced and talked of boys.
The priest had said this is how seduction starts.
She visited the tree one last time
To say goodbye to its limbs and flowers
And to the innocent sins of her youth.
She didn’t feel like a woman at the fairy tree
She felt like a child, but not for long.
Sleeping in the one-room hut with her father and brothers
Becomes more awkward as her figure changes
And they treat her differently as well.
One night her older brother pressed against her
Back in the darkness, whispers her name,
Rolls her onto her back,
His hand clamped gently over her mouth,
He lies atop her, moves till his need is met.
Refusing to open her legs, a maiden she remains
But shaken at the change.
She asks her father to let her watch the flocks
At night, the wolves no longer scare her as before.
A tearful confession later, the priest asks
If there is anything she could have done to provoke this.
She admits going to the fairy tree.
The priest quakes within.
That damned and enchanted thing is leading good girls
To incest and licentiousness and its power must be broken.
The Fairy tree is chopped down and drug to the public square
And set ablaze as the villagers watch shifting between
Cheering and sighs of wistfulness.
By the time it is burning hard
Joan is crying without shame.
Her limbs feel broken.
Her face is hot, her arms and hands red
Like the fire is consuming
Her very flesh no matter how far away she stands.
It is a hungry force that would take all that she is
Leaving nothing untouched but the smoking remains
Of her broken, sacred heart.
Facts about Joan of Arc
Joan Websites--coming soon