He fell off the balustrade, another

small misstep toward glory, just one among

the litany of injuries my brother

has endured during his short life– each one

a peculiar work of art, prosaic

yet absurd. He’s the jester of martyrs,

the black comic who has enough nicks,

gouges, and breaks to have suffered,

all told, one fatal round of martyrdom.

More Buster Keaton than St. Teresa,

(whose beatific guise belies marble

but still does not suspend my disbelief)

he laughs, doubled over in the front yard,

then tries to walk, stumbling toward sainthood.