The Truth About Lagoa

Dear children,

Adorned with puffy pink dresses,

You clambered into the taxi cab.

Going home early after too much sugar.

The taxi rattled down the road

and began the swoop around the lake.

Break lights glared ahead. The taxi stopped.

The driver’s eyes wide, glazed with fear.

Words mouthed by the driver

so that you wouldn’t hear.

Bandidos. Trafficantes.

Mother told said that you were playing a game.

The winner was the child who could

crouch the lowest on the taxi cab floor.

Happily, you squeezed yourselves

between the car seat cushions,

stained and burnt by cigarettes.

The median was too high

for the taxi to turn around. You giggled.

You didn’t hear the shouting. Or see the men

rushing down the hillside.

Or the gun. That noise was too familiar.

Car doors ahead swung open.

A threat of a gun pointed at a startled face.

Bags and watches dropped to the road.

Treasure carrying men ran up the hill.

The taxi drove by.  You

still wanted to play the game.

Now you know.

Love,

The people you are now.