Few farmers' daughters receive on their thirteenth birthdays
the gift of mystical visions. Most have to settle
for a pitchfork in the hand, another cow to milk,
another squalling baby brother to look after.
Still, visions are just visions. Few holy fools would think
(or dare) to cut their hair with a sickle, don shining
armor, look a spoiled prince in the eye, or ride into
a siege. Most of them simply wall themselves up and pray.
And, of course, few condemned prisoners recant only
to renounce their recantation at the smell of smoke.
Few witches are thrice burned. Few heretics canonized.
Few saints leave no charred relics for charlatans to hawk.
But oh, not you, Joan. That day in Rouen, God first felt shame.
And chivalry perished with a nineteen-year-old girl.