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A Poem: Joan of Arc Sends a Postcard Home 

Dearest, they burnt me!
They caught me out on the road after midnight,
astride my prancing pony, the wind full in my face.

They lassoed the horse and brought me in.
The moon put out its light, the stars fluttered, then failed.

There began a howling gale like the voices of the dead
shrieking across a distant ocean full of cold, bloodless fish.

They prepared my stake
it sat on the hill like a cross
a stack of wood beneath it.

They tied me to the wood firmly, with rope,
that cut into my wrists and ankles.

My black cloak puffed out around me like feathers.

Somebody struck a match
and then the thing was lit.
Whoosh—the wood took and blazed,
but I did not feel the burn.

It began to snow, large white flakes
floated down around me and coated the ground.
the hateful sent icy fingers down my spine

I showed off as I died, howling and wailing and failing my limbs;
a spectacle and then, I was gone,
my spirit departed my body
like a train leaving a station
I became feathers and ash.

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