Black-plumed
cantors in formation,
all prim in three lines;
black binders,
ink crotchets writ black in their thighs;

sorc'rer
his wand at the ready—
he lifts it in time;
their spellbooks turn
and bleed
and the story reads:

Savior!
This glorious child—
this mother betwined
by fate—
this star—
these sheep—
this rémscela to
the greatest tale ever told.

This ****** mother—