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Commies allow unions? Commies have servants?”

A sassy girl waved a handful of papers.

“We want long long stay bisas

for Pilipina maids.” I get it: visas.

“To stay, to work. For Hong Kong to be

safe harbor. We want health

insurance.” “We too. We want

health insurance too. Universal

human derecho.” Simpático. The women told

the man their grievances: “The bishop’s Pilipina

maid cooked and cleaned house for eighteen

years. She grew old, and is sick in hospital.

The Chinese will deport her.”

Yes, Hispanics like you get deported

in my country too. Operation Return

to Sender. “The bishop went to the bisa office,

petition for her, his housekeeper. Chinese

ask, ‘She fit or not fit for work?’

Can’t work, must deport.

That’s all Hong Kongers care.”

“The other day, a maid fell four

stories. From up there—that high

up. Madam made her wash the windows.

She’s alive. She’s in hospital, but who

will pay? Who will send money

to her husband and babies?” Wittman could pay.

Pay for the hospital, pay for the babies, pay

for the whole village. Rich American karma:

Pay. Pay. Pay. (Karma is Sanskrit

for work. Karma does not mean doomed.

All it means: work.) From a pocket of his Levi’s,

he pulled out the U.S.D.s and the R.M.B.s.

“Here. Yes, yes. Take it. Please.

For you. All yours.” He’s got more;

he’s got enough. “Give it to the bishop’s housekeeper.

Give it to the window-washer maid.”

Giving away money, don’t make

the donee feel poor, and don’t you

be her fish. Our donator finessed

the bills under a brick that held flyers

down. “Use it to lobby for health and visas.

Thank you for taking care of citizen business

though not citizens. No, no problem.

Thank you. Goodbye.

Behind the great

windows of the Bank of China (Hong Kong)—

open but not for business—a priest

in white and gold regalia was lifting a chalice—

not toward any altar, his back to the congregants

(as in Earll’s day), but toward Pilipina maids.

Pilipina maids knelt and sat on

the marble floor, scarved heads bowed

and palms together, attitudes so humble,

you could cry. They give in, they thank.

Old Monkey would’ve jumped into the crowd,

snatched wine and mitre, slurped up the wine,

donned the hat, pissed in the cup. Today

Monkey went quiet. Quiet prevailed.

He backed out of the bank that’s church this Sunday,

and continued his walkabout basking in the alma

and the mana of Yin. In a bright alley, jam-

packed with boxes, mothers and godmothers

filled cartons with toys and dried milk

and canned milk, and children’s clothes and shoes,

and men’s clothes and shoes. Las madres y

las comadres shared tape, string, scissors,

and wrote out postal and customs forms.

They are saviors of families, villages, populations.

Woman’s adventure, woman’s mission.

The lone male looking at them was no bother.

But they hated me, a woman, seeing them.

They looked back at me, shot me with hate.

Turned to follow me with their eyes, hate

firing from their eyes. They hated me.

Hate-stares followed me though I walked

with the attitude that I was at home among my own

Asian sisters. In words, they’d be calling me

names. “You fucking bitch empress. You

make me clean your toilet. You make me sleep

in the toilet.” Though catching stinkeye,

a curling lip, a dissing shrug of shoulders,

I willed a kind and pleasant mien.

May you be happy, you be safe.

May you make much, much money.

May your children and family be happy and safe,

and you return home to them soon.

I must remind them of Madam, their Chinese employer.

But I don’t look like a Chinese matron.

I don’t dye my hair black. I’m not

wearing my gold and jade. They don’t know

I bought these clothes at the Goodwill.

I’m wearing shoes donated after the Big Fire.

They don’t know, most of my nieces and nephews

are Filipino, and 9 great-nieces

and great-nephews, Filipino Chinese

Americans. They don’t know me, I am like them,

my marriage like theirs. Wife works for money;

husband, employed or unemployed, has fun.

Son, too, has fun. Men know how

to play. Music. Sports.