In the case of the People, the juror says
And I wish I had eyes in the back of my head
so I could see the people behind me
so they can see me
Not the version of me they see in those drawings—
eyes like dead spaces on my face, mouth turned down
nose wide like my father’s
cheekbones high like my grandma’s
Not the version of me they see on TV—
head down, arms pulled back
wrists cuffed
mean-mugged
name in mud
But the real me, like, past my face, past my story
and into my eyes so they’d know
what really happened that night
I’d let each one of them step into my soul
and walk those city streets
walk through that building’s door
walk through that school’s halls
sit in those classes
sit on those front stoops
sit on those trains
stand in those lines
stand on those corners
stand in front of this judge
And maybe my whole soul
my whole life
will be like a mirror
And instead of me
here in this courtroom
it would be
the People versus the People
. . . versus Amal Dawud Shahid, she says
Keep my name out your mouth, lady, I say
But she don’t hear me, though
No one hears me
My lips are sealed
but my words have a life of their own
Even if they’re locked up
they’ll bounce off three walls and slip between
metal bars
They’ll say what’s up to the inmates
mean-mug the COs
walk out of the security-tight doors
fly out of this place
aim for the sky, kiss the clouds
and shout to that stale wind
that my name is Amal
and
Amal means hope
The jury finds, she says
As if this is a game of hide-and-seek
and I’m curled up under some table
my body balled up like a fist
like in my mom’s belly
Or in some closet, behind her dresses
smelling like perfume
like home
like cooked food
like plans for the future
like maybe-somedays
like see-you-tomorrows
. . . the defendant, she says
As if it’s my name
As if I came into the world
with fists blocking
boxing gloves like
Holyfield, Louis, Frazier
Tyson, Rocky, and Ali
