A hundred head scarves, maybe more
black among white pulled tight
carpet seated clustered, captivated
alongside Dior and other flashy
fleshy airport ads
they lean attentive
who spontaneous, stand by
to sing and mime in language
they're quite drinking in.
Afterwards an animated girl
among the singers says
two dozen words about a God who
shows his love by death
and offers up his work
by life remade.
The head-scarves all attend, then
clap and wave their thanks,
make much of them.
And afterwards I tell the forthright girl
that she's been brave to speak.
"Not so brave as them," she says,
to serve as maids."