by Jane Mary Curran
When Athenians heard of
the resurrection of the dead,
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.
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?