Joan and Philip

You look me over as if you have never seen me. I am dressed in sackcloth, tied to the pole. I am St. Joan of Arc, my bones burning me from the inside. You are the inquisitor; you weigh the verdict in your hands and pick at your fingernails. Or perhaps you are St. Philip Neri with the heart too large even ribs fall in the byways. We will stand next to each other in the Hallelujah Chorus -- my soprano to your baritone. You floated off into heaven, but I burnt to the ground; they gathered my bones for charcoal. You know, your eyes woke me once in the night and you shone like Moses' face beneath his womanly veil, but I, doubting Thomas, could not believe. Instead, my arms clutched at each other to drone out the gnashing of teeth.