The Woman from Mecca

She is the only woman that speaks

to me of God

in Saudi Arabia.

 

In the women's tent,

our men next door,

we trade broken phrases

 

of English, Arabic, our right

hands pointing above

our heads.  Your God,

 

my God, she says, before the call

to evening prayer sounds

across the streets outside, taking me

 

back to my first hours here,

at night, in the back of a van,

the windows tinted, so men

 

outside cannot see

my face.  Tens of thousands

of workers, shopkeepers, Saudis,

 

tall in their white

thobes pray side by side,

huddled in groups

 

hands up, clasped, then down

as they bow, like her,

like the woman from Mecca

 

is doing now, her body and face

covered, mouth moving

to prayers I do not know,

 

the only woman praying

in our tent, bowing down,

and I try not to stare,

 

try not to listen to the others

speaking of the maid who stole

golden bracelets, earrings,

 

but listen to the woman from Mecca

whisper to God, wanting to know

what she says, what He

 

whispers back.