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| Source: Selah: Thoughts on the Psalms and their Use by Christians through the Ages |
Greek Easter
All the Greeks in Bloomington come here,
to Peter Costas's for
Easter. Whole garbage cans
of roasted lamb
beside long tables of food, and
ingredients—feta, filo,
olives—ordered from faraway
Chicago.
We say, "Kalo Pascha."
Vassili pinches both my cheeks
and says, "Koritsáki mou."
We click our eggs together
and the holder of the unbroken
egg gets luck.
I ask my mother, "Why are
all the eggs for Greek Easter red?"
"The red is the red of
Christ's blood
and of the lamb's blood."
"That's sad."
"Yes," she answers
"but the eggs are for new life."
She doesn't say Christ died for
our sins, she never will,
though the neighborhood kids say
my whole family
will go to hell for not going to
church on Sundays.
To me, equal to Christ's story is
the story of "that Helen,"
who was beautiful
and ran away to Troy in spite of
marriage and kin.
The sorrows, the strategies, the
triumphs of the gods—
each is a red egg
piled high in a bowl.
I walk under the grape arbor,
which is still in winter.
At dusk dancing begins.
My father leaps and turns in the
air, arms spread
like island windmill sails. Then
he holds the handkerchief
for my mother to lead,
quick-footed and laughing.
My parents are beautiful. I
wonder if they love each other,
though I'm sure they do, I'm not
sure I believe what I see—
I go inside and sit with Doctor
Frank.
His voice is calming, deep and
slow.
Then I go outside and see
smoke and a small fire
backlighting the corner of the yard
where my brothers and some other
boys
compete to pee the highest,
broadest arc.
I look at my white shoes. I can
smell the delicious lamb.
