They strut and cock and spray, the sins of the fathers incarnate. Flocks of uniformed, pride-puffed men invade her television room nightly, clucking about danger, pecking away at bombs they were paid to drop last year. Miss the excitement, desert storm, money's good, somebody has to do it. From all over the world, they flow into her home these Braves, well-braced with guns. In their wake comes famine.
Cameras linger longingly on the faces of the women's dying.
Lenses finger expiring children intimately. Men, and the boys following the men, nuzzle their vehicles, stroke their weapons. By now, it would seem to observers that she has begun to rave in her empty car, this crying white woman. Actually, she is wishing aloud for the Aboriginal mother whose taken child was returned in a coffin, wishing for her some distractions, self-absorptions, times for flowering between the sun and the sea. Hear this out.