At the park, they gather
on Sundays to be washed
in a river of sound: bevy
of tongues, unloosed after
fortnights of quiet bowing,
slippers only in the house,
saying only Yes or Okay Madam
or Here is the change. Every girl
has a story, words that branch
into new distances from the tree.
Fountains splash their chain
of quilted echoes.
Every unrimmed space unlocks
a few hours, every morsel
they exchange both vestige
and confiscated passport.