Lynndie England is the daughter we always wanted
Sean Lause
I saw her once
down on Summit Street
setting stoplights on fire.
Don’t get me wrong-
If I saw her now
I’d probably level her
But you don’t know her
in her secret veins
and I do.
It wasn’t orders,
psychic numbing,
quiet rage, rule by Nobody,
Banality of Evil or
evil of banality . . .
All bullshit.
Nothing is more misunderstood
than this obscenity we call breathing.
And Lynndie England
sits outside her trailer
alone under a tarantula sky,
sucking gold from fireflies
and praying for a tornado
to descend like a witch’s hat
and swallow a hole
she used to call a heart.
Because nothing can be whole
ever again, and nothing can be pure enough
or evil enough to feed the hunger
of her hate, because her people
die before they even breathe,
because the starved and lost
of this generation are a monster
waiting to be born.
Aliens float round this earth nights
like Christmas bulbs terrified
of crucifixion
and if Lynndie ever met one,
she’d tip him like a cow,
stick firecrackers up his sad blue ass,
because she wants to, anything goes,
because the impure products of America
seek salvation in insanity.
And besides, don’t hide it-
Lynndie is one mean little fuck.
Life in prison for Lynndie?
She’s already there.
She’s home.
A private lynching then?
If you think final solutions are.
But where was her life?
Might I save her? Snake my lines
around her cancer-choked soul?
Drink the poison back
from the prison of her veins?
Or are words
a sinful innocence
seducing knowledge to dust?
Silence forever unanswers suffering
What I want to know is,
what do you think of your blue-eyed girl,
Mr. Bush?