That Judge

Poem

That Judge

is in no position to judge the rusted-tin sheen of our combined hearts.

The rain and wind and horrors how to weather the storm of litigation. Where Wuthering Heights and Crime and Punishment happened. That judge

only read the back cover.

Missing salient emotional twists fumbling with joining the dots. Missing the relevance of a dream catcher above a child’s bed better to chase away night tremours and the insatiable feeling

of impending loneliness.

That judge is jaded from all those white trash thickos telling fibs on affidavits and using

children as pawns.

He of the pink shirt and thin lips and holiday house in Lake Hayes cannot fathom a shortage of petrol might be relevant or a houseboat makes economic sense, or how hard it is to reach

while tied to this arbitrary fence.

The judge pauses mid-speech pricked in the gut by intuition banging a pot with a wooden spoon and making decisions with scissors in sacrosanct shoes that do not fit on nature versus nurture even though in this case

the substance is sawdust.

Get out your gun Annie. These fat-cats are retarded they’re out of touch with lower socio-economic bohemians and the spirit of

wholeheartedness.

Where is the trail of blood, the umbilical cord? Where is this proof of bond? Between a songstress and a child, says the scoffing judge. The defendant has no proof only dresses made of feathers.

Throw them to the wolves.

But trinkets and candles and wooden mirrors, but citrus and sage and velvet leaves and anklets and drums and tapestries

Your honour.