The Death of Rosie the Riveter
Sun spots, crustaceans, a basin of brains, fact finders sniffing the evidence, sniffing clues, the prurient parts of the enemy.
Rosie the Riveter, builder of battleships, down for the count, cast-iron maiden, maiden of steel, buried in a vault, welded shut.
Another episode ends badly, a door slams, the interrogation goes on. Name-rank-and-serial-number, electrodes clamped to your testicles. Who do you love, where lie your loyalties, would you care for some water? Ha-ha, just kidding, here’s a spoonful of sawdust, open up now.
Look around you, is this your country, your language, your top-secret document? Did you blow up the skyscraper, the bridge, the hospital full of children, yourself all strapped in with dynamite?
It’s all gone too far to legislate.
The room goes pitch black.
A faucet drips.
A confession begins to take shape.