he?

joan of arc

would lay her sword across me,

glistening by candlelight

polished bronze reflecting wet skin

maybe she would bind my hands

with her discarded chainmail

as her botticelli soft grape nipples

graze my teeth

bared in brazen want,

wonton and young and strong and bullheaded.

purple, blue and grey

ink spreading across the surface

of something like water

still and stretched,

bruises from battle pluming up her thighs…

i prefer a sharper pain

and if the blood comes with it then we’ll have to drink the blood,

and if the blood is sweet than we’ll keep drinking

late into the night

as joan hangs up her heavy armor

and her mousy hair billows

between us.

leaning back in her chair,

i deftly snip the ends

holding them slant like i’ve seen the professionals

then feathering the ends.

i have the whole length of it in my fist

and i could yank her back if i wanted

and she knows it

but i don’t.

“What did it sound like when he spoke to you?”

I ask as I part the strands

and clip the outliers

She breathes into her neck, head swiveling to glimpse me,

pre-colonial lips parting,

“He?”