On a Sister's Shoulders My death was part of your emergence as out of her womb you climbed to claim the world, an only child, a savior with blood on his baby hands. When you hung on that everlasting pine drained of sap, it was for me and not for them -- Father's retribution. It was your delusion that you hung to save any soul other than your own. I was the crown of thorns, a sister's parting bouquet, mocking your thirst as you cried out, the salt on the lance, burning cleansing, one last jab into the heart of a false white lamb. For it was I who carried you -- a sister, still-born, buried under straw and donkey hoof that murderous Bethlehem night, when the reign of a boy king dawned over my descending star.

Detail from a Painting by Fra Angelico