She listens, listens, holding
her breath. Surely that voice
is his – the one
who had looked at her, once, across the crowd,
as no one ever had looked?
Had seen her? Had spoken as if to her?
Surely those hands were his,
taking the platter of bread from hers just
now?
Hands he’d laid on the dying and made them
well?
Surely that face --?
The man they’d crucified for sedition and
blasphemy.
The man whose body disappeared from its tomb.
The man it was rumored now some women had seen
this morning, alive?
Those who had brought this stranger home to
their table
don’t recognize yet with whom they sit.
But she in the kitchen, absently touching the
winejug she’s to take in,
a young Black servant intently listening.
Swings around and sees
the light around him
and is sure.
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