She holds His shoes in her hands.
They are worn shoes,
but the only clothes not stolen
by Romans and priests and elders
and everyone else who always wanted
a piece of Him. But they cannot have
her piece. The feet that wore these shoes
were feet of her feet, blood of her blood,
tears of her tears.
As yet, the halo has not been painted.
As yet, she is still a Semitic woman
with a dead Semitic son. And yet,
the halo will shine no brighter than now,
barely reflecting off brighter tears;
tears that will paint her halo brighter
than any pale Dutch Master ever could.