Jeanne d'Arc, and: The Black Arts

Jeanne d'Arc

A creature in the form of a woman with a man's
   impatience, in a man's doublet and tunic,

she refused to don clothes "suitable to her sex
    . . . and to womanly duties," having left

the farm without permission, drawn on
   by Saint Michael, whom she had seen

not solely in her imagination but indeed
   with "the eyes of her body." Instead

of the usual malady suffered by women,
   Meniere's disease would do the trick

to light and chime her way into history:
   it's a rare girl who leads men to their death.

Undeterred when an arrow pierced her shoulder
   on the long, bloody march as chef de guerre,

she let her women dress it with olive oil,
   then drove off les pucelles, "camp followers,"

with warning blows from the flat of a sword
   to keep her company as pure as the Lord's.

Imprisoned in a tower, she leapt, yet her captors
   simply picked her up, a broken marionette.

Warrior or symbol? Virgin or wanton?
   Leader or mascot? Man or woman?

Pressed by their questions, she wept bitterly
   and silently. How could she answer them?

She did not want to burn. She did not need
   that consummation of her uncorrupted body.

Christ himself quailed as he foresaw his ending,
   yet I hear not a saint but a girl crying,

"Rouen, Rouen, am I to die here?"
   Youth believes most of all in its immortality.

The Black Arts

Her sister called during office hours.
    "Is she saying anything in her poetry?"
      As if I were a doctor or a priest,

I said, "I'm afraid that's confidential."
   "We cruised the mall," her sister told me.
      "But she only chose black things."

I didn't confess that my half-cracked girl
   had out-blacked even me, a charcoal
      down coat burying her bones.

Her advisor called me in the evening.
    "Is she saying anything in her poetry?"
       "I'm not qualified to analyze

her psyche," I said, thinking of the headless
   marionettes, visions of martyrdom,
      and usual longing for oblivion.

Considering my position as poet/professor,
   I referred her to the counseling center
      before abdicating responsibility.

After graduation, she sent a letter:
   Since my mother's sudden death,
      you've meant so much to me.

I wrote back my standard upbeat note
   (Take care! Good luck! Keep writing!)
      and never heard from her again.

I am left with the apple on my desk.
   "Go ahead," I'd said. "Please. Feel free."
      This offer of food hung between us

like sex or drugs: the envious queen
   tempting Snow White to take a bite.
      Then she drew my lure to her side.