The amulet

Poem by Karima Brooke

‘I have no desire to make windows
        into men’s souls.’
The judge echoed the queen, conscious
of irony and the risk of own goals.
In her domain, rhetoric flows.
‘We’ll pray for him; tell us his name.’

        It’s no secret.
Though tribunals are closed studios,
with appellants rarely touched by fame.
        Maybe like Pontius
Pilate, hers is a secular mindset
presiding over a populist game.
I touch the amulet hidden near my breast bone,
see myself kneeling, call on the Holy Name.
    He won humanitarian protection,
        Article 8, Sub-section…
Also allowed was that day’s earlier claim.
        An orphan trafficked,
bought by ‘aunty’, sold on as a slave,
He cried out but no-one came.
No-one noticed – hard to believe.
        Boxes ticked.
‘Prayers granted’ was sent as emojis by phone
from missionary friends: ‘It shows
        how God alone
is merciful and truly knows
    what’s in men’s hearts.’
    We all have roles
More or less original, all mimicked.
Much depends on the court district.
We play our respective parts.
        Though we rejoice,
what’s the fate of those without an advocate?
        no supporting voices,
no-one able to translate?
How then does the petitioned God make choices?

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