Don't Tell Joan

as she kneels, sword at side,
about de Rais. By all means sing
out that his latest bride-

to-be has changed her mind, choosing
still more money over him,
however filthy wealthy, charming.

Spread cad slander, say he's vim
for the wine, the whore.
I'm certain you could name most sins

and she'd dig deep for her comrade. Sure
she'd excavate forgiveness,
a balm, if not a cure,

from her armour, for countless
misdemeanours, varied
ditch-cast mothers,

the odd stuck rogue hurried
past ami-de-ami judges,
along with the loose talk the unmarried

attract. So let her suggest
that no soul is lost
to the Pit, that largesse

revives the damned. Don't list
in blue and blond
before her altar, the cast

of tiny hundreds, frozen at his hand,
their heads like sceptre tops,
sapphire-eyed contraband,

hair matted with ejaculate; collapse
her world by naming the monster
and asking her, just once, perhaps,

to pardon a co-commander
who discusses with his lesser demons,
of the vile collection, which is prettier:

that of the six year old from Lyon
or the golden waif snatched from some back rue.
Don't put a saintlet in that grim position.