After I Was Raised

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.