PEACE CORPS by Karen Minns

I never cried
my blonde sister, over any of your stories.
Not
when the village Witch stole your pig
and visited, later,
with it as a hat.
Not
when the locals warned of the curse,
Because you so resembled the Boers, who
robbed their culture, who
dried up the land.
Not
the malaria, which plagues you,
still, nor the lack of foodstuffs
and cigarettes.
But, one Sunday, returning from The City,
ten hours in a broken bus,
hung-over and rejected, you lugged your suitcase
alone up the red goat path, asking
“Why? Why? Why?”
Ahead, topping a round hill, a line of little faces,
waiting.
Always waiting–wanting–
Something.
Something.
“Something from me…”
They stopped your hike and held out dusty hands, smiling.
“What now?” You gasped  your smoker’s breath, raspy.
“Happy Christmas!”  they sang in an African carol.
For you.
And from smudged palms, offered
their only sweets.
For you, who had  forgotten
what day it was.
This is the only story
that can still make me cry.