Borderline

A Brief History of Tin Soldiers

When the motel door opened, and it was not Patrick who entered,
I knew he had finally done it.
We were arranged on the window sill, facing the closed curtain.
I hoped they would overlook us-they would never understand-
but the crime investigators were thorough,
saw more than the guns laid like rose petals across the bed.

Lesson 1, Geography: the tin soldier was created in Germany during the time of Frederick the Great.
I often wonder about my maker:
whether he worried that modern warfare would render his creations obsolete,
or if he knew, instinctively, that we would never find a better weapon
than a man trained to follow orders.

We were in the room for a week.
Patrick spread us across the oatmeal carpet.
Arranged us in platoons like the old times,
put us through our exercises.

Lesson two, Civics: in 1913 HG Wells wrote a book called Little Wars,
recommending the use of toy soldiers in simulated war games
as cathartic experiences to avoid future conflicts.

When Patrick held me, I was certain I would melt. His grip was so delicate.
Beneath the skin, something boiled.
There was nothing I could do; I was built for a child’s hands.
In his, I was just another lump of metal.
No better than a bullet.

Lesson three, Economics: tin soldiers were an early example of mass production.
They were expected to be sold in bulk, like their models.

When the investigator found our formation,
he started laughing.
It sounded like a dog being strangled.
He said, Patrick Purdy still played with toys.
Of course that freak opened fire on an elementary school.

Patrick was never a soldier.
He didn’t understand that it means being faceless.
That no one is supposed to know your name.
These days my platoon lives in an evidence locker marked with his.
The sale of automatic weapons has been restricted.

Lesson four, World History: you don’t need an AK-47 to destroy what you don’t understand.
It just speeds up the process.

I sometimes wonder what the lessons were the morning he snapped.
Geography or civics. World history.
Maybe, they listened to their teacher read a fairytale:
The Steadfast Tin Soldier.
In it, the soldier with one leg falls in love with a paper ballerina.
They are swallowed by fish, and consumed by fire,
but leave behind a spot of melted metal,
a little tin heart.

The Etymology of Reason 
Darling:
You know by now 
how every word 
is a burden.
 
It has a family to honor,
rules to uphold.
 
When we first married,
I begged you to be careful with diction.
I am easily confused,
knowing the story lurking behind every syllable.
 
When you left this morning,
you didn’t say a word. 
You have never been so precise.
 
Reason evolved from the Middle English reson
sometime in the 12th century. 
But we don’t know how it happened.
Maybe it was Eleanor of Aquitaine
standing naked before her mirror,
layering on jewel after jewel,
trying to convince herself diamonds could harden the skin beneath.
The word bends against her tongue. Reson.
Sluggish with age. Reson.
She chants it over and over, thinking of her husband
and his new lover— Reson—
the vowels stretching to a screech— 
a reson, a reson, give me a reason.
 
I told you once this was the best part of my job.
Tracing words through millions of mouths, 
river rocks polished to perfection by years of misuse.
But this isn’t about my job,
and I do not claim to understand your reasons.
 
So I need a new word. Reasonable.
It stumbles into the countryside
amidst the turmoil of the thirteenth century.
Severe rainstorms have dragged the mouth of the river 12 miles to the west.
Albertus Magnus isolates the element arsenic,
and names the bird singing outside his window Oriole.
He walks along the new riverbank,
watching displaced peasants praying.
Please, Lord, be reasonable—
the new word twisting like a dying fish against their wooden teeth—
we expect so little.
Reasonable.
 
Darling, this morning I said it 
eight times before the mirror,
one for every century
the word has kept its current shape.
My lips struggled to contain it.
Each repetition,
bitter almond rising in my mouth.
The river is not where it should be.
It sends syllables crashing against my palate.
Breaking into pieces.
 
I wrote you this letter
 to fit back together
all the fragments
settling on my tongue.
Your new lover,
an oriole in my throat,
flapping its terrible wings.
Reason.
I wear it heavy and hard against this thin skin.
Flawless precision.
 
Maybe language only changes to more fully express our loss.
But it can never capture the throb
of air evacuating lungs, how we plaster 
sound over the silence,
hoping it will be enough.
Maybe you were right. Maybe sometimes,
it is better not to use words.