Poetry Daily: Seth Abramson, "Public Defender"

Public Defender

Think Scheherazade. Not this story again. Think that
perhaps you will avoid—won't see today—or smell—
                                one more time
the one about the woman with seventeen fog-cutters
on her breath, whose teen
wrote in green marker on a bathroom stall at P.S. 254
                           (which is a crime)
which teen now says to you in the courthouse lobby
                                I raised myself you know

*

                    Think how poor is the place where
every action has   of course
                                                     every consequence—

             because there were words
exchanged over a bowl of pasta; because there was
enough mixer in the freezer
                              for two; because
              she spit in his dinner
to show he was not a man; because he wanted to be
a man;
              because he was stronger than she was
and their verbal argument quickly became
                              what her lawyer will describe
as a
                              physical altercation

                              (which is a crime)

and he reached the telephone first, because he was
             always faster

*

Think Marx. Think about all the workers of the world
at least once having been
             in your office, how you caught yourself
apologizing to a man for the smell—

             you see—    it wasn't—    that's not—

and remembered it was sweat, that all you've smelled
this October is sweat—
             paydirt from the local build-up before winter—

oh forget it you said, but made a man twice your age
feel ashamed—

             and you did not know how to apologize

             so you did not apologize

                                 (which is a crime)

*

You think your ears will bleed from out their drums—

you think it is possible at twenty-seven to hear enough
and be done with that sense, at least—

your tongue, too, for having said we can only do so much
this many times, this many times, this many times—

your nose as well, because sweat has a smell and dirt
has a smell and of course booze has a smell
             like desperation and a car in the black trees

beside the road, in which
             a man repeats I should be dead I should be dead
                    (which is—                     which is—)

and your eyes should go, too, for being
                                         in places they never have light
to see: twelve black men sitting
                                                     two-by-two
on the unlit stairwell, waiting to meet the yes your honor
             no your honor

of this place—the burned-up extremities of this place—
             where a thousand lives or more
lodge each week
                                                     like ash—

                    (but at least you shook their hands)

Seth Abramson
The Iowa Review
Winter 2006/07

Copyright © 2006, The University of Iowa
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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