Dacian Eyes

Poor Mary.

What was she going to say,

that she was charmed by a Roman soldier

who spoke Aramaic so strangely?

She had no idea, of course where Dacia was

even though he tried to show her on his upturned hand.

Over here is Rome,

he pointed to the middle of his thumb,

and Galilee is here

he pointed to his pinky,

and I am from here, in the middle,

indicating where his index finger

met his palm.

So many months of marching to get here.

I can’t imagine, she said, but she could.

If she didn’t imagine other lives

in far off places

she would have thrown herself into the well

from which she brought up water

twice a day.

She would never have thought up

an explanation for her tattered virtue

that would build cathedrals

in her name

for millennia.

But sometimes you need a memory