La Coursier de Jeanne DArc

　　 by Linda McCarriston

　　 You know that they burned her horse

　　 before her. Though it is not recorded，

　　 you know that they burned her Percheron

　　 first， before her eyes， because you

　　 know that story， so old that story，

　　 the routine story， carried to its

　　 extreme， of the cruelty that can make

　　 of what a woman hears a silence，

　　 that can make of what a woman sees

　　 a lie. She had no son for them to burn，

　　 for them to take from her in the world

　　 not of her making and put to its pyre，

　　 so they layered a greater one in front of

　　 where she was staked to her own--

　　 as you have seen her pictured sometimes，

　　 her eyes raised to the sky. But they were

　　 not raised. This is yet one of their lies.

　　 They were not closed. Though her hands

　　 were bound behind her， and her feet were

　　 bound deep in what would become fire，

　　 she watched. Of greenwood stakes

　　 head-high and thicker than a man's waist

　　 they laced the narrow corral that would not

　　 burn until flesh had burned， until

　　 bone was burning， and laid it thick

　　 with tinder--fatted wicks and sulphur，

　　 kindling and logs--and ran a ramp

　　 up to its height from where the gray horse

　　 waited， his dapples making of his flesh

　　 a living metal， layers of life

　　 through which the light shone out

　　 in places as it seems to through the flesh

　　 of certain fish， a light she knew

　　 as purest， coming， like that， from within.

　　 Not flinching， not praying， she looked

　　 the last time on the body she knew

　　 better than the flesh of any man， or child，

　　 or woman， having long since left the lap

　　 of her mother--the chest with its

　　 perfect plates of muscle， the neck

　　 with its perfect， prow-like curve，

　　 the hindquarters'--pistons--powerful cleft

　　 pennoned with the silk of his tail.

　　 Having ridden as they did together

　　 --those places， that hard， that long--

　　 their eyes found easiest that day

　　 the way to each other， their bodies

　　 wedded in a sacrament unmediated

　　 by man. With fire they drove him

　　 up the ramp and off into the pyre

　　 and tossed the flame in with him.

　　 This was the last chance they gave her

　　 to recant her world， in which their power

　　 came not from God. Unmoved， the Men

　　 of God began watching him burn， and better，

　　 watching her watch him burn， hearing

　　 the long mad godliketrumpet of his terror，

　　 his crashing in the wood， the groan

　　 of stakes that held， the silverblack hide，

　　 the pricked ears catching first

　　 like driest bark， and the eyes.

　　 and she knew， by this agony， that she

　　 might choose to live still， if she would

　　 but make her sign on the parchment

　　 they would lay before her， which now

　　 would include this new truth： that it

　　 did not happen， this death in the circle，

　　 the rearing， plunging， raging， the splendid

　　 armour-colored head raised one last time

　　 above the flames before they took him

　　 --like any game untended on the spit--into

　　 their yellow-green， their blackening red.

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