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?