dear joan of arc,

what's it like to become
the Seine river? 
i've been thinking about
you a lot lately--
mostly because of
how many poems people have
written about you--
i hope you don't mind but i
would like to write another--
this one isn't a metaphor--
this one isn't about a young
girl turned into a fire &
then a river this one
is a invitation--
if you would have time
i would like to meet you--
it could be anywhere but
i would prefer somewhere romantic
like a park bench or a fountain--
yes, a fountain would be nice
or the creek that runs near
my parents house--
we could take off our shoes 
& walk in the chilly autumn
water & i could tell you 
all about how when i was
fourteen i couldn't wear
armor but that we all bled 
milk & when the fire ate us
we turned into water--
found our way beneath the river
stones to sleep where our bodies
couldn't find us--
i would ask you if you
know how to skip a stone &
of course you wouldn't--
you were too busy listening
to angels--
i tell you to hold it like this--
no--no 
you need to find a flat one--
& we toss them to the other side
of the water--
yours takes three leaps even
though it's the first time
you've ever skipped a stone--
could you tell me what the
angels sound like or do you not
remember?
do you still talk to them?
alone at night when 
you are a river & the
night sky washes her
hair in your arms-- do you
still hear angels?
i believe you if you say you
did & i still love you if
you admit that you didn't--
i think we've all heard angels--
i want to ask you've ever
made a duck call out of
a piece of grass-- press
your thumbs together & 
put the blade in between them--
wet it just a little bit but
not too much--
yes you have it-- it's not hard--
i hope you don't have to
go back to being a river
so soon because i would
like to stay by the creek long
enough to watch the sunset
paint herself behind the 
trees-- we can stuff our
pockets with the colorful 
leaves & maybe keep some of
their colors for ourselves--
there's the oak 
& the red maple becoming fire--
igniting our pockets & our
hands & i watch the flames 
consume you & i say i'm sorry 
for asking you to leave
your body so that we could
walk on the bowed heads of
the stones-- i say i'm sorry for
making you a metaphor instead
of a girl like me-- a metaphor
like me-- another girl who
hid her body in a river 
so she could no longer burn--
they dumped your ashes in the
Seine river after burning you
three times & i can't help
but think of you dispersing--
floating farther & farther away 
from yourself-- your body a part
of all the water-- the bends--
the curled fingers around the ankles
of all the light in paris--
that is nothing compared to my
creek--
if you should have the time come 
& meet me here--
we can be lovers or friends or 
children-- it's whatever you
want to make of it--
when we're done we can be fire together--
let the doves lose from our
throat-- they'll see our smoke
signals across the ocean &
the angels will tell me i was
silly to try to love a girl
who is now only a river--
lay down with me like
the night who sleeps on
the surface of the water--
dear Joan dear Joan
meet me if you can--
we can leave our bodies in
the water--