La Pucelle

“…this Soul has fallen
from Love into Nothingness…”

Marguerite Porete
(14th Century French mystic)

The moon drops down through the night clouds
And lands hard like a white axe in the wet earth.
An eagle claps his canvas wings about her ears,
Drowning her in total sound. She feels a silver
Mist, a golden voice, visible, tangible and terrible.
Tongues of angels tolling out the fate of
Slaughtered herds for a flower upon a flag.
Spinning into a shaven skull, church bells and
Burning burning burning and her ashes
Floating downstream on the Seine.

al 07/01/2018

Joan's Coat