A solitary, limbless tree

      beckons skyward

As mountains of kindling,

      dried leaves,

      and freshly split logs

      are arranged into a three-dimensional equilateral

              at the base.

A few layers of crude stone

      encircling the pit, add a finishing touch.

Those gathered,

      French nobles, bishops,

      and peasants alike,

Shriek epitaphs of “Witch” and “heretic”

      while silently repeating

      “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys.”

Religion and politics,

      like clandestine lovers,

      mingle as stale bread and bad wine

      during a Rally Day stump speech,

      complete with barbecue.

A frenzy of torches ignites

      the accelerant-drowned pyramid

      sending flames eight feet into the air.

Sizzle and hissing sing hymns

      to the steady beat of snaps, crackles and pops.

And a Pentecostal ecstasy

      rages through the emblazed crowd,

      their faces running red,

            eyes glowing gold.

Bound hand and foot,

      lashed to the heavenward spit,

She gazes upon the crucifix through the bonfire

      calling constantly upon the blessed name of Jesus

      until the last breath is choked from her scorched breast.

The mob cheers and jeers with mesmerized euphoria:

“Ding dong, the witch is dead.”

That peasant girl,

      just nineteen years old,

            Saw visions,

            Heard voices,

            Prayed without ceasing,

            Resurrected a sword,

            Shouldered a custom standard,

            Kept the king’s secret,

            Cross-dressed for protection,

            Commanded armies,

            Fought victoriously,

            Prophesied truthfully,

            Honored her country,

            Elevated her family,

            Withstood inquisitions,

            Perfected faithfulness.

She was sold by her traitor countrymen

      for ten thousand francs,

      falsely accused, illegally tried, convicted

            and sentenced to death

      for nothing more than accepting the high and noble call

            to serve God and country.

Years after her ashes are thrown into the Seine,

      the theologians and politicians recant,

      reversing and annulling her sentence.

But for Joan, it is too late.

Even canonization five centuries later

      cannot restore her visions, her voices,

Until they are born again in someone else.

Based upon the historical account of the execution of Joan of Arc.
© 2005 Cheryl A. Hemmerle. All rights reserved.