In a gravel pit dug by executive hand,
Where puppies get buried and rights get unplanned,
Stood Kristi Noem with a smirk and a shell.
The Cruella of Homeland, but dumber as well.
No second thoughts. No flicker of grief.
Just the swagger of someone who is the motif.
She shot her own puppy and bragged in a book.
Then grinned for the cameras like, “Hey—take a look.”
Said Cricket was crazy. Said goats can’t behave.
So she marched them both straight to a gravel-pit grave.
“It’s ranch life,” she muttered. “It had to be done.”
But it felt more like cosplay with access to guns.
Now fast-forward to Congress—bright lights, glossy hair—
Where Kristi sat cool in a Homeland chair.
She smiled as she lied with her oath still warm,
And redefined law in Fox News form.
“Habeas corpus?” she said with a shrug,
“That’s a tool for the president—like boots on a thug.”
No mention of trials. No nod to the clause.
Just deportation by executive jaws.
And behind her, a file marked “CECOT—Approved,”
A plan for deporting the barely accused.
A boy with a tatt. A mom with a past.
Shipped to El Salvador stupidly fast.
Not convicted. Not tried. Not allowed to appeal.
Just labeled a threat for “not keeping it real.”
They call it enforcement. They cite “public fear.”
But they’re vanishing people like bad cashiers.
And that’s when the floor gave a tremble below.
A wind with a purpose. A lantern’s low glow.
She rose from the margin, from books tossed in bins.
With dust on her shoulders and fire in her shins.
Habeas Corpus. Returned from the dirt.
Tired of caution. Ready to hurt.
“Kristi Noem,” she hissed, “you smirking disgrace.
You murdered my name with that bargain-bin face.
You rewrote the law with a boot and a grin.
You deported the innocent, then cashed it all in.”
“You buried a puppy. You buried the plea.
And now I’m unburied. I’m coming for thee.”
Kristi blinked once. Adjusted her tone.
Still clung to her binder like it was her own.
But Habeas stepped forward, eyes lit like a flare,
And dropped all pretense right there in the chair.
“You think I’m a footnote? A form you can file?
A dusty old clause that’s been dead for a while?”
“I’m the court in the dark. I’m the name in the night.
I’m the goddamn demand for a charge and a right.”
The senators flinched. Her lantern went red.
And the Constitution tilted its head.
Kristi tried smiling—that polished campaign,
But her grin hit the floor like a runaway train.
The mask on her face, all polite and composed,
Started to twitch at the edges it froze.
Behind it? No insight. No law. No belief.
Just Fox News soundbites and manufactured grief.
And Habeas laughed—not kindly, not sweet,
But the kind of laugh that peels back deceit.
“You quote me like scripture, then shred what I meant.
You vanish the poor and call it ‘intent.’”
“You send them to CECOT with no second thought.
You know where they’re going. You know they’ll get caught—”
“In cages the size of a parking stall row,
Where sunlight’s a rumor and justice won’t go.”
“You call that security? You think that’s the plan?
You’re just laundering cruelty in a flag-branded van.”
The cameras stayed live. The interns looked pale.
One Senate aide whispered, “This… might derail.”
And still Kristi sat there, mouth cracked like chalk,
While Habeas paced in a liberty walk.
“You want to play sheriff with executive might?
Then drop the damn mask. Step into the light.”
“Say it out loud—no process, no plea.
Just a list, a suspicion, and ICE on a spree.”
The mask gave a shimmer. A delicate snap.
Then peeled like a sticker off taxpayer crap.
Beneath it? Not power. Not wisdom. No plan.
Just a person-shaped void in a Homeland brand.
The chamber fell quiet—too quiet to fake.
The mask hit the carpet. The pillars, they quaked.
Kristi sat speechless, caught mid-deflect,
As her brand-new authority failed a gut-check.
No scroll. No charter. No lie left to twist.
Just a paperweight smirk and a “MAGA” assist.
And Habeas? She didn’t wait for applause.
She unsheathed her scroll like a chainsaw of laws.
“I’m not here to warn. I’m not here to plead.
I’m here to indict—by statute and creed.”
“You used me for silence. You used me for spin.
You turned due process into how you get in.”
“You made me a weapon. You called it reform.
You shipped them to CECOT, then praised the storm.”
“You cheered while the shackles got tighter each day.
You vanished their names and filed them away.”
The scroll caught fire. The ink bled gold.
A thousand names rose, their stories retold.
“She was sixteen.”
“He’d filed appeal.”
“I just asked for time.”
“They said I should kneel.”
“My papers were clean.”
“They rushed me at dawn.”
“They said El Salvador, and then I was gone.”
The chamber collapsed into flickers and ash.
The cameras shut down. The microphones crashed.
And Habeas turned—slow, brutal, precise,
Her lantern now glowing like surgical ice.
“This wasn’t a hearing. It wasn’t a vote.
This was your judgment, carved into your throat.”
“You could’ve said ‘no.’ You could’ve stood tall.
Instead you made gravel and called it the law.”
Noem didn’t answer. Couldn’t, in fact.
She sat with the names she once tried to redact.
And Habeas walked—no drama, no cry—
Just a scroll in her fist and truth in her eye.
No banners unfurled. No senators stirred.
Just one iron sentence that everyone heard:
“I am Habeas Corpus.
I am the plea.
I am the right.
And you answer to me.”
Subscribe to support storytelling that exposes the mask, names the villain, and lights the lantern of Habeas Corpus.
Closer to the Edge doesn’t flinch.
We rhyme. We rage. We remember.
This post has been syndicated from Closer to the Edge, where it was published under this address.