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Face blank as absolution,
              from this back row
she stares straight ahead
              to the small raised stage
of touring musicians, lost
              in the rebel notes they sold
their souls for. Surely, the slight
              shadow of sax expands
to fill her one solemn eye,
              the blur of bass drum
the other. The charismatic vocalist’s
              filled-with-the-Spirit keyboard
oscillates up and down
               her stiff spine, while—
inside the long sleeves of her habit—
              her fingers, half-hidden
in the fabric’s heavy folds,
              tap-tap, tap-tap.

—Marjorie Maddox

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