In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

IN A PAST LIFE, YOU WERE JOAN OF ARC Little heroine, a dose of morale for the sad soldiers, pick up the shine of your sword, but not the sword. You’re hearing voices again, early in the twenty-first century, that say Don’t let the duke catch you talking to angels. Or you’re leaning from a tower in Rouen, in Manhattan, a swoon of sidewalk way down, feeling trapped by your own devices. It’s . It’s . Spring—what are you doing with those boys in the field, in the dunes? They say they love you now, but in a month when your body is wounded, the only honor they’ll give is last in the field as they retreat. No man wants to be led by a girl. Go back home. Make a bright northeastern bouquet  of lavender, willow branches, forget-me-nots. Soon you’ll be charged with passion and heresy. Don’t let the duke catch your soft shoulders beneath that armor. When you left, it was winter. Your mother hid in the heather wringing her hands, and you took with you just enough to stay hungry— a heel of bread, a cross, a canteen of plain water, the memory of your village burning.  ...

Share