An Apology

Para los que yo he juzgado

I buried my gavel
in the proverbial back yard, which is
really a slab of concrete,
and the
soil is too muddy to dig in anyway.

I have hammered my gavel down
against you, him, her, others
too many times to recall or count--passing
down my ruling, my judgement,
my smirk and guffaw, my eyes rolling with
contempt for your bare feet or
pants or exposed hair to the sun or
your quest for ihsan or your silent
contemplation of Him--
in your own way.

I might as well have worn a barrister's wig
and robe all of these years, pleading my own
case.
I've been a defense gal, a prosecutor, and a juror
all rolled into one dripping, seething
critic extraordinaire.
Have you seen me in action?

How could you? How did he? What was he?
Don't they know? Can't they see?
Just some of the absurd questions I ponder
ineffectively.
Where are your socks? Is that lipstick?
What is in your heart?
How often do you weep at night at the
thought of your misdeeds?
Don't answer me; none of this is my business.

Mine is a temporary
feel-good, enough to nudge me up the
righteous ladder
a notch or two.
The top is unreachable, I think.

I always fall back down the rungs
I've climbed through my pretentiousness.
These trivialities, I know, do not count. I
lost sight of this for so many years so please,
remember that
I buried my gavel in the back yard, and I won't be
banging it down anymore, as this fraudulent judge
knows she had no place, no right--
just misinformed, displaced
pride.

And I'm sorry.

UmmFarouq
February, 2008