Joan

You, proud-mouthed, cool as God’s fire,
Bringing down your wrath on those with hope.
Terrible tyrant of this fragile world
Peopled by robbers, saints, children,
You do not mind at all the heavy hand you wield.

Nor do you see the faint beauty of a population
Who don’t care to fight you, who pass no judgment,
Who light no watch-fires upon our shore. 
No, you see beauty and need to make it weep red 
And sprawling – ants creeping up your fist, but disorganized- 
No bridges there, no salvation in your sight.

Cold killer of joy, keep your mask on – 
We already know where the troll lives.

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