A Painting by Velazquez


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,  
                                                                                                live?  
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.