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 is in the kitchen, absently touching
the winejug she’s to take in,
a
young Black servant intently listening.
swings
round and sees
the
light around him
and
is sure.[1]
[1]
‘The Servant-Girl at Emmaus.’ The painting is in the collection of Russborough
House, County Wicklow, Ireland. Before it was cleaned, the subject was not
apparent: only when the figures at table in a room behind her were revealed was
her previously ambiguous expression clearly legible as acutely attentive.
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