by Liz Dolan
John 11
Sweaty hands touch my garments
as I scoop water from the well. No one understands:
the voluptuousness of the sun, the scent
of breeding women, copper-colored, the chickens
pecking at my toes, the cacophony of chatter
the busybodies, the visitors
with their mitzvahs and challah. Still
Martha clucks about me like a brood hen oiling my skin, clipping my nails. And her endless braying about Jesus, Jesus…kneeling I speak of the unredeemed souls I have seen. Tiny cymbals din. The voice of another rises in my throat.