Easter in Athens

by Jenny Doughty

Nurses teach me Greek words as they poke my veins,
fasten ports to my hands and hook me up.
Their names mean ‘happiness’ and ‘bride’

Like a child I learn gratitude and how
to be polite — ekharistó, parakaló,
the right time of day for kaliméra,

kalispéra, kalinýchta. My IV stand
is my tall, thin, friend. I call her Polina.
She is a great support. I push her slowly

up the green-tiled corridor and back, or out
into my small balcony’s sweet April air –
jasmine grows below, and lemon trees.

In the next room an old man moans. I see
his gaping mouth, sunken cheeks, as I pass.
His family visit, conduct fierce squabbles

around his bed. Today Christ was crucitied;
church bells clang two notes then a minor key third.
At three o’clock they stop. Christ gives up the ghost

and the soldiers throw dice for his garments.
Easier to focus on the old robe, the inheritance
in the face of unbearable suffering.

On Saturday the Eternal Flame arrives
by plane from Jerusalem; priests carry it
to waiting churches, believers keep

the Easter vigil while Christ harrows hell.
Next door to me the groans of pain are louder.
Family come and go; his wife strokes

his naked feet and legs, thin and tallow.
At midnight fireworks light the sky, crowds
stream through the streets carrying candles,

bearing the light of the resurrection home.
Sunday morning we wish each other Kaló Páscha,
tap our dyed egg Easter gifts together.

I hear joyful hymns and radio music,
smell barbecued lamb. Late in the evening,
my sick neighbor takes his human gift and dies.