Objector

In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon to ward off complicity--the ordered life our leaders have offered us. Thin as a knife, our chance to live depends on such a sign while others talk and The Pentagon from the moon is bouncing exact commands: "Forget your faith; be ready for whatever it takes to win: we face annihilation unless all citizens get in line." I bow and cross my fork and spoon: somewhere other citizens more fearfully bow in a place terrorized by their kind of oppressive state. Our signs both mean, "You hostages over there will never be slaughtered by my act." Our vows cross: never to kill and call it fate.