Poetry Issue 14

   Issue # 14 : January - June 2011

Annah Browning

Joan of Arc in the New World
Holy Ghost

Joan of Arc in the New World

    In the morning I return again
                and again. Wearing

    no hair. The children do not
                know me. They reach out

    and touch my hands.
                The metal over them

    is fear. I ride all morning
                on a horse. I let him carry

    me. I ask him, is this where
                you wanted to go

    and he says, yes. The trees are full
                of poisonous fruit.

    The parrots flicker like candles.
                I tell him, this place

    already belongs to God. A snake
                bites my leg, there’s a whistle—

    there’s somebody saying,
                the whole world does.


    Sometimes, you fall in love
                with the man who killed

    you. You want to be close
                to him. You want to feel

    and fondle his ears. They are
                slow divers, floating

    down the hill in dusk. They are
                coins going to the bottom

    of an ocean. They were coins
                you wanted to spend.

Holy Ghost

    How the world fell
                from your arms like

    so much fruit. Look, the flesh
                calls to you, the grass

    teems with things, little clots
                knocked loose, they sing

    to you, as I do, too— I cross
                my arms above my chest—

    your fingers left me stroked
                among the mushrooms,

    the hole in the hill where you
                tucked me, said, come

    again, soon dear, we will have
                to come again, soon.