by Tiffany Coley

Created on: September 09, 2010

The Sword and the Sunflower

This is the sword Joan of Arc used to decapitate a sunflower.  The handle was ribbon, like gripping a woman’s wrist.  The blade was almost subterranean, a metal edged stalactite.  Almost a vapor.  A sword rests differently against the female hip.  It becomes more than tool of protection or aggression.  Encased within a leather sheath, the virgin's sword was a sword of ideals, a blade that never drew blood, yet commanded the respect and reverence of an entire army.  She used it for no violence, except for that day on the march through the pasture land. 

The sunflower was solitary, head bowed slightly on that summer evening like any dignified martyr.  The golden corona whispered a chorus of the saints.  It grew tall atop a thick stem on a small plot of earth in the middle of the dusty road.  Below it flourished wild brush flowers in white and blue, mingling their colors with the straw hued grasses.  Travelers and soldiers never trampled atop this small island of wildflowers, instead they followed the foot worn path that diverged around it as if to preserve at least one piece of beauty in the vulgar world.  Joan approached and stopped to rest and gaze at the sunflower as the troops continued their weary walk all around her. 

The longer she gazed, the more transfixed she became until she could not tear her eyes off of the sunflower.  Deep in the brown velvet eye she saw visions of what she could only guess was the future.  The French banner, blood stained and floating in a castle moat.  She heard the hiss of snakes as they wound their bronze coils around the king's crown.  Arrows blotting out the sun for a moment, she saw a dove pierced through the heart and dying in the hands of a dirty peasant child.  She saw herself in filthy rags, head shaved and bruised, awaiting the return of a raping jailer.  And finally, she witnessed flames burning green with sulfur and heresy.  And the flesh of something angelic.

She was quick to sever the stalk with one defiant blow.  Residue oozed from the cross section.  Pity for fallen flower petals lasted precisely one exhalation.  She caught her breath, then she tread across the wreckage in pointed armored boots, breast plate shielding strong palpitations, visor hiding her frightened eyes shadowy with fluid seeds.

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