Author’s Note: The torture in Iraq authorized by our own Secretary of Defense has enraged me... hence this poem
LETTERS NOT SENT
There were ten of them -
skin the color of desert dust.
We culled them from cells
the size of a barb-wired closet
into that courtyard where
we laughed , watched
them strip, toss off torn rags,
that discarded cloth fluttering
like yesterday's butterflies, made
them spread their cheeks wide, enter
the next man down the line,
made our own daisy chain like
the ones made in childhood, took
photos not attached to letters
or sent (Son, I'm so proud),
knew we were showing
those terrorists who was
boss and serving our
country too, but oh mom,
I still smell their fear and
their sex on my hands.
It's been weeks now.