Linda Stupart

Joan of Arc’s horse is enormous, of course. Its coat is an oily, mirror-black, reflecting the shine of both Joan’s armour and her religious convictions. Like all horses, Joan of Arc’s horse was born with soft, slippery tentacles on its legs, so as not to tear its mother’s insides apart during birth. Sometimes, armour protects bodies from the outside, and sometimes protection is soft and viscous; falling from hooves sharp as swords onto straw-covered floors: coming out of the womb and out of the sign of Woman.

Meanwhile, in the room next door, Jesus emerges fatherless in the manger: a virgin birth (a clone). Jesus develops his colt sneakers later, as they/he become a man; become a body: dies horribly.

And, to be honest, I’d like to request one trans invisibility day, please—slipping out of sight and out of the State’s surveillance; climbing down from the burning pyres—it’s okay to be a witch as long as no one can see you or catch you, right?