by Jane Mary Curran
When Athenians heard of
the resurrection of the dead,
some scoffed.
—Acts 17:32
Damaris peered into alleyways, stumbled along porticos,
her eyes enflamed by the hot light of stones,
cracked lips whispering
Phoebe Selene. My child of the Moon.
Selene.
Through a maze of heat she dragged the heavy earth of her body
to the Areopagus,
stood on the outcrop, a marble statue
veined in grief.
Word clouds, loud in debate, swirled around her.
From the blur, Damaris heard
resurrection of the dead.
It was the voice of a Pharisee assuring Athenians
that the Jewish god had raised a man from the dead.
She could not breathe.
A body no longer shrouded in myrrh.
A soul returned from the Underworld.
A child no longer alone in the earth.
Damaris raced to the Pharisee, grabbed his sleeve.
Tell me! Tell me, please!
I have a child. She died.
Can your god bring her back to me?
