Donna J. Gelagotis Lee
Easter in Another Country
The lamb was not killed for you.
Yet the aroma from dozens of spits
makes you begin to desire. You
cannot help it. You cannot help
yourself. Dozens of lambs roast
in the town square. The smoke
rises over the buildings, rises
into your lungs, settles onto
your tongue. Christós Anésti.
Who will eat of the slaughtered
lamb? Feast. It is not your blood
that runs back to the earth. It is not
your earth. How can you eat?
Some will give up each part,
but others are left with the heart.
Do you see their black eyes,
their tied limbs, their skewered
bodies, naked, pierced?