not just her,
not just her mother,
but her grandmother, too-
three generations
who have never drawn breath
in a world that couldn’t be ended
by a weak man
with a finger on a button.

she is nine years old
and tells me
be careful
as i lift my bicycle
over the gate
to the apartment building
in which we live-

i’m in love with her,
her family,
this building
on a sunday night
on which the evening edition
proclaimed another nation’s success
at testing a weapon
that could end the world
by fire.

i would take her-
if i had to-
i would take her home with me.

we would care for her
as if she were our own-
share canned beans,
tins of fruit in heavy syrup-
cast suspicious eyes at strangers
in her defense-
would brave the outside world
and all of the monsters
that surely lurk
beyond the walls
of apartment #1e
in an attempt
to make her safe.

but it is sunday night
and on monday morning
we will go to work
on trains that still run,
in cars that choke highways-
the girl will be taken to school-

be careful,
she says.

you too.