"No, no, no! You aren't listening to the facts."

"Yes, he's quite right, the fact is that this gentleman is guilty. Plain and simple…"

"We know it's hard for your type to accept such heinousness, but..."

"Yes, who on God's green earth put a woman on a jury to begin with?"

In another life, Elizabeth would have winced at that last comment. Though, her current life had been filled with them-- men who talk loudly and overlap one another with their wagging tongues-- she felt sure that the eleven incredibly diverse specimens of the male species—well, as diverse as a room full of old white men can be, that is to say, very little—which stood around her barking out their opinions would not halt until she gave them what they wanted.

Elizabeth was incredibly used to giving men what they want. She thought to herself that she may as well give in this time, too. The men were not likely to hear her arguments or even shut up long enough to acknowledge them. She could “change her mind,” as she’d so often done in the past during arguments with her father or her husband. She knew that she could just agree with the men now and be home in time for supper.

Thoughts of the young man in question flooded her mind. She saw him sitting, quivering, behind the stand, unable to look at the lawyers or jury—probably for the fear of being labeled too bold for a black boy. Elizabeth had heard the evidence against him. It was purely circumstantial, and she felt sure that if young Arthur had been a white boy of the same age of 14 his innocence would not be in question.

“Miss,” one of the more tolerable men who swarmed about the room appealed to her now, “we would all like to get home for supper just as much as you—”

“Yes, and I’m sure you’ve got some cooking to do for your husband as well.”

The tolerable one spoke again, “The punishment for stealing isn’t too bad in Alabama. If you would just… agree.”

But the boy wasn’t just accused of stealing. That was why he was on trial, yes, but Elizabeth knew there had been a much darker reason for his arrest. Judge Taymour’s wife had been sneaking the boy an apple every Sunday so that he would have food in his belly before church—Elizabeth had witnessed it herself. The boy never stole a thing other than that woman’s affection, and Taymour couldn’t stand a little black boy so close to his wife.

“Miss,” he didn’t know she was married, “all you need to do is say yes. Just a simple yes will do.”

The room filled with silence, drained, for once, of the constant buzzing of men’s mighty voices, and the air was thick with, well, with whatever possessed men to be quiet. They all stood on their toes, staring like predators at the place where poor Elizabeth sat.

“No,” she said.

A loud grumble rolled about the room, and just like that, the buzzing was back. Some threw their meaty arms up impatiently, some plopped into chairs defeatedly, others paced about the room.

Elizabeth allowed the them to accept her answer, wondering if the men would ever accept being told no, and then she spoke,

“I am going to speak now, do you all understand?” Her words broke through the buzzing and hissing of others’ voices, and, perhaps shocked to hear a woman speak with such authority, the men fell silent. She went on, “I have quietly listened to all of you slander a poor, defenseless boy for hours now. Not one of you has mentioned the word ‘evidence’ let alone spoken about Taymour’s relation to the child.”

“Relation, dear?”

Elizabeth looked the man straight in the eyes and replied, “Arthur never committed any crime other than accepting a gift from Harold Taymour’s wife.”

“That is a serious accusation you’re tip-toeing around there, dear.”

Elizabeth snapped back, “No more serious than locking up a 14-year-old boy over an apple, I assure you.” She went on, “I’ve seen with my own eyes Mrs. Taymour handing the boy his Sunday apple and kissing him on the cheek, as a matter—”

“You’ve seen? Woman, may I remind you that a jury is to be completely dethatched from the defendant and free from all partiality toward him. How do you reckon you’ll be able to see through your obvious feelings about the boy and make a fair decision?”

Elizabeth smiled the same smile she always gave her husband when he was being an ass and said, “Well, I ‘reckon’ the same way you pretend your own fear of black skin isn’t what makes the ‘boy’ guilty, Sir.”

The room fell silent again, a different kind of silence from before. The man’s face grew red, either form anger or embarrassment, and Elizabeth stood, now in the middle of eleven men who may never let go of their grandfathers’ ways and said,

“Arthur is alone in this court—one black boy in a sea of white men telling him he’s guilty of accepting kindness from a stranger. Think for one second. Other than the boy on the stand, how many black people were in that courtroom?”

“None.”

“That’s right,” she said, “None. Not even Arthurs own parents showed up to the trial to support him because they knew what might happen to them if they went around offending white men.”

“That’s preposterous. The boy’s only 14. His parents are legally obligated to be in the room when—”

“When little black boys go to prison for touching a white woman’s heart, legality is no longer the issue.”

Elizabeth nodded in agreement.

White ceramic

pressing against our fingertips;

Yellowed teeth,

parted Purple lips;

Bagel breath,

strained eyes,

strained face,

strained smiles

that go nowhere.

Pinky fingers

moving an inch,

candied apple’s

slowing movement

like molasses,

like Red light,

like soflty spoken words.

Quivering Blue

meets wondering Purple

more than halfway;

Forked tongues

not yet sharpened,

not yet deadly,

not deadly enough.

Piss off the Yellow.

To Hell with the Red.

And the cold White freezes

when smooth tongues part

the Purple and the Blue.

Perhaps God is like the Ginkgo tree. Maybe Her golden leaves are the last of many, the only proof left of the long history of emerald fans and maidens' hair. Stories-- myths-- of Her former family fill the air wherever men gather. Some say She's gone--extinct, that is. Others, well, they still remember the whistle of the warm summer breeze, the swaying of Her curved limbs, Her feathery hands reaching for the skies as if to wisk the clouds away from the sun.

Perhaps the journey is yet to be finished, Her roots undiscoverd, and maybe, just maybe, the tree we call God is waiting, hidden in some wooden garden in the east and guarded by serious men called monks-- waiting to be rediscovered.

What happens once we discover the tree? Do we plant Her in every courner of the earth? Or, do we leave Her be, untouched by soiled non-monk hands and the unclean air from across the seas?

Perhaps the Ginkgo doesn't need to be freed. Perhaps She's happy in the monks' company, alone and yellowing in Her life's late Fall.

You crack your neck, and I think of what it'd be like if your head would snap from your shoulders and roll down the hall into a dark corner or something, alone and collecting dust and in a happier position atop the cold ceramic than ever above your punishing build.

Yet your Spine holds tight its precious King.

I envision you slumping in half like a one-slice pb and j, back crackling all the way to the hardwood, and staying that way so that my foot may help your high King release himself and make his escape.

To my dismay you do not fold or bend or move toward submission in any other

way, and my hopes fade as quickly as a Lily under your thumb.

Where are you from, little Cloud? And where will your path fade? Will you sit a while with me as I enjoy my morning tea? Or are you in a dreadful hurry to get to wherever Clouds need to be?

And why is it that your hue is that of a peach?

Did you swallow a ruby? Lie too long on a sandy beach? The sun is a funny thing, warming our bones and leaving us blushed— a forbidden love, embracing, foreboding.

Oh! Tell me, little Cherry blossom, from where you get your shape— or rather lack thereof. Is it possible for a thing to be so free yet so obviously bound to one place? If you know you are free, why do you not leave? Do you prefer to float here, impossibly elevated, just out of my reach?

Oh, won't you lie with me, little wispy thing? Enjoy the sunny morning, the dewy grass. We'll nap in the green and dream of floating away together to some place never discovered.

We're at the mountain's peak,

a cold and breezy place.

Your wide smile

somehow timid

and soft;

And I scream to the threetops,

"We are the kings of our own lives!"

And you giggle.

You take my hand,

and your words tickle my ears:

"Freedom

is in the tiny things;

It creeps along

in the needful things.

"When you want an apple

so badly that it hurts,

or when you scrape your knee

on your favorite hickory tree.

"Freedom

is the right to lose your voice,

or bruise your face

on the pavement,

to redden your cheeks

or embarass your parents

at the grocery store."

Freedom,

I think,

has got to be More.