The Servant-Girl at Emmaus
(A Painting by Valazquez)
She listen, 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 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?
Surel 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 mornin,
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 round and sees
the light around him,
Denise Levertov