Joan’s Uncomfortable Halo: A Poem

At thirteen, we’re all saints

Gangly limbs, sugar and spice, puppy dog’s tails

loosely woven together,

held in awkward suspension by hormonal passion,

misdirected, leftover childhood fervour,

angry independence.

It all combines to look just like faith and bravery.

At thirteen, we’re all pious warriors.

We all hear angelic, ghostly voices,

pay heed to noble causes,

believe that each raindrop, each bolt of lightning,

every gust of wind

carries the weight of all the souls in creation.

At thirteen, we’re all keen to carry banners,

to please men:

a father, a king, a nameless god.

We’re all too eager to trade the freshness of flesh

for the unbending confines of armour,

our new curves, our afternoon dreaming and planning

among lanky stocks of lavender,

for the promise of flame to burn away

the disappointments of adult reality.