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?