It gets easier, bearing it. Not like I’ve got Atlas’ burden, but I was only bones for six or seven centuries and not malcontent. The Romans had a knack for architecture and my catacomb offered certain comfort—dry, undisturbed. Pope Paschal had no business rooting around like a mole, mussing up his vestments, scraping his elbow in eagerness. I’d tell you how he cursed but it’s unseemly to gossip about God’s chosen. I’ve had years to learn this and other codes I should have known before I died, being canonized and all. He christened me Cecilia and so I am. Patron saint of music by chance or even purpose, patron saint of virgin brides by design. I’m not sure what to do with all the prayers piling to mountains. I never asked for this and my negligence is a common symptom of the unqualified. Such an astral rise from bones to relic, it’s surprising my spirit didn’t get the bends. And Paschal missed his calling as a publicist, how quick he was with backstory and his gift for invention: tortured to death for the rejection of my bridegroom, a pagan. But who of us was not back then, seven hundred years before the Christian robbed my tomb marked for Artemis: Callisto. Claimed now, Heavenbound, I keep busy unknotting the secrets of my flesh. A maiden, yes, but having lived my life for the huntress and her nymph, I am no martyr. Phantom blood pulls to the forest and, if given voice, I would growl. Muscled limbs knew bow and axe better than any man’s caress and I miss the swift shadows of beasts more than kisses. But it’s no use, wishing to be cast out from the canon. The situation has its perks, an unblocked view of the constellations and I stare. Enviable, their dip below the horizon, a rest before their rise and chase across the sky—unfettered movement. And Paschal, in his bumbling, stumbled on a sliver of accurate divine. Callisto, Ursa Major, Great She-Bear condemned among the stars can never leave the sky.