Poem: The Servant Girl at Emmaus

(A painting by Velasquez) Denise Levertov 

 

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 had ever looked? 

Had seen her? 

Had spoken as 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 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 wine jug she’s to take in, 

a young Black servant intently listening, 

swings round and sees the light around him and is sure.