Masks

   by Wilda Morris

Evil stands behind its mask
as a persuasive woman
swearing in the of all that’s good, 
telling me she can solve 
the problems of the desperate.

She comes with the first hope
I have felt in months
as my mother lies dying,
my little sister and baby brother
cry for more food
and warmer blankets.

The job I’ve sought for months,
she tells me, is in Tel Aviv, Abu Dhabi
or Chicago, somewhere far away
where rich people want maids
or nannies to care for their children
and women are paid well
to work in restaurants or factories.

She swears again that she can get me
the best job. It’s my only chance, 
so I pack what little I have.
get on the plane, accepting her explanation:
the circuitous route 
was designed to save airfare.

Now here I am, not knowing 
the language, required to smile
and coo as I service ten men each night, 
not allowed to go out alone, slapped 
or kicked if I ask to go home. 
My mother is still dying—
or already dead—and my little sister
and baby brother still cold
and hungry and I too far away
to hold them against my shattered heart.