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04
25
05
Self-Portrait as Diane Weinstock in Guatemala, 1994


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The missionary fears losing his Good
Works—he sits on the wooden bench holding
his hands in his lap. He cannot calm them.
The crowd outside has risen to a mass
over two hours. The jail is small—it's door
and walls are made from thin sheets of wood.
Sheriff prays the army will arrive. He drinks
Coca-Cola, pacing near the cell door,
is told over the radio the children
were found (playing ball in a field outside
the village)—the crowd believes by witchcraft.
Witnesses insist the children were dismembered,
placed in Diane Weinstock's red nylon pack.
The people are told Americans steal
their babies. Rumor, the hundred mouthed, rolls
gargantuan, flashes a hundred grim smiles.
The army is delayed. The mob overtakes
the building. The missionary, the sheriff
and his men flee, the crowd uniformly
beats Diane Weinstock unconscious.


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post #85
bio: john ball
perma-link
4/25/2005
09:50

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April - National Poetry Month 2005

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April - National Poetry Month 2005
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I don't love anything, not even Christmas
My favorite place in the world
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