POEM LVI: “LINDSAY LOHAN”

In the old days,
St. Theresa, or Lida, or Lilith
played this role.

Vessel for pity and scorn,
an object both of lust and derision,
a goat with its back dripping red.

We used to have sculptures
and now we have reality TV.
The dynamic is precisely the same.

Observe her trembling lips,
her overflowing eyes,
her exposed breasts.
(Theresa’s were cut off,
and Lindsay’s grew overnight.
We stare all the same.)

I’m told Jesus once cast a demon out of a woman;
the demon needed somewhere to live
so it went into a herd of swine
who threw themselves off a cliff
because what was in them, was bigger than them.

So it is with Lindsay.

She is bigger than herself now
a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day float of her
pulling her down a street lined with eyes,
pulling her with tethers and hooks,
pulling her towards that cliff.

Watch her go.

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