Chosen, St. Catherine, St. Michael had come to her,
led her to where the sword was behind the altar,
told her to make a banner of Jesus in Heaven,
and she went to war.
She sat on her steed, the tall and dark warhorse,
and looked out at the battle field. She’d carried the day.
She felt the light of the sun warming her skin
beneath her armor.
Frail from the war, the muddy camps, and little food.
Tired, but willing to go on, willing to drink from her bitter cup.
She grieved even for the enemies cut down, for the carrion crows.
For all this wicked world could be.
She turned her head, and looked to the sky.
The sun was bright and untroubled by it’s sight.
Was it not the eye of God, after all?
Did it not see all this blood and death?
A fire in the castle burned, and Joan was transfixed.
St. Catherine and St. Michael had told her what was to be.
She drank from her bitter cup, but the weight was the sky.
Fire would raise her ashes to heaven, cinders at the bright gates.