16 — Mothers of War

An anarchist sat on my lap screaming, "Why?"

I said, “Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird."

The anarchist threw the very thought on the floor saying, "I don't care. I don't want it."

I said, "Fine. Have it your way,” and watched her throw my refusal against the table leg with her own. Without caring, without wanting anything, we both let willingness break into three irreconcilable pieces.

And then she blamed me, for everything. Began with her agony. Wretched momentary girl.

I said nothing. Could not bear the responsibility bouncing on my knee, but a patrolling Marine lit a sleep-deprivation cigarette between us. Her crying stopped. I felt less infringed upon for a moment but then, remembering that he was really trying to quit smoking, the Marine put the burning thing down after drawing one long last breath. The anarchist went to her crib for a nap and the Marine extinguished that single cigarette—more fragile than most gods—somewhere not that important near the bounds of freedom.