They call it a hearing instead of a suspension or sentencing. Every institution maintains they've followed procedure— professionally, dispassionately. Abided by the code or the book, whose provisions are conveniently undergoing revision. They dispense with the need for a transcript or recording, and tell you to rely instead on the undependability of hand- scribbled notes. You may bring a witness at the last minute, one who is not allowed to speak or otherwise make his presence known. They're counting on you to not anticipate where the blow has come from; to not have the presence of mind nor patience to comb through hundreds of pages of rules for loopholes. It might astound them that someone like you, far from the top of the known pecking order, decides to open her mouth to read a statement, moving confidently from one point to the next. In the un- seen gallery the ancestors sit, minding their behavior. They include the grandfather who was a magistrate in his prime, and once threw out a counselor for noisily snapping gum; and the great- grandmother, who ate of the fruit of the magical kingdom before allowing herself to be led away. The spirits have agreed it would be unwise to get kicked out now, just for the feeble pleasure of booing or heckling the proceedings. They throw their voices like darts into your throat, so your words expand in timbre but keep an even and ongoing pitch. Whatever you lose, it won't be a galaxy. Even dead stars burn brilliant beams in the dark.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.