(For executioner Geoffroy Therage, Joan of Arc comes back from the dead)
In her afterlife, Joan dreamt of opossums squeezing under the scullery door. Like instructional revenge, she memorized cold soup recipes and lifted the lid too early, rescued molars to needle a necklace. Fatty misgivings, fate slams voice light against the cutting board. A busy pot is a full pot. Spreading mongrels don't stop thrashing about. Roaring Burgundians lost their ladders looking for such a sour man. Wind blew religion into the mobs' mouth like a herpes' sore. Elevation should be effortless or you're not doing it right. Laugh in the imperative form or it a question. Burnt on three occasions, (Joan calls her murder an occasion,) ashes clung to cat femur bones. She crawls out of the Seine and depletes all earthly sense back into the earth. Fingers reach up through dandelions, tickling the worms and ants to find him, sleepless. The clover spreads over orifices, Creeping Charlie her minion, the river bank bursts forth in all its watering hole glory. The murk lifts the humidity, minstrel piss engulfs nostrils. Like any good crawly thing from the earth, there is an alteration. Sleeves are crossed gently under fat jowls. Strangled by a hair shirt. She kisses the ballooned face and gives pause. A bowl of stars cupped in her palm is so beautiful.