Joan of Arc in Rouen

I’d called a crusade against my enemy.
On the site of my ordeal, no sculpture
remembers me. Where my body flared like
a window, then smoldered like stone, ivy

flickers. Fine then, go to the cathedral.
It lies a quarter mile away. The glass
of your era shines of six furrow-faced
men who beset me. My halo shines as

the seventh. I will not triumph. Yet those
like me do not depend on monuments.
Orphaned, divorced, they approach, they lay

plastic cones of flowers. I bless them. Rest
your helms! Here walks one who is ready
to unclothe herself of her suffering.