A Stoning of a White Dress
Everyone glances; once, twice, a few more times
At the girl, pigtails growing from ear to ear,
With hands folded in her lap,
Staring just beyond the bailiff’s hat.
The girl adorning that pristine, angelic, white polka dot dress.
Then they usher Him in, some-somebody,
Famous for extending his childhood in a game.
In his Sunday best he passes, sweeping his head to the side
While pestiferous green eyes glare her down.
He dares her to look, to cower in fright.
But the wide eyed girl in the pigtails glazes ahead.
Never looking back, never turning toward him.
That girl in the grass stained white dotted dress.
His lawyer stands up, addresses the room.
“Her behavior alone created this grief,” the fickle lawyer claims,
As the lawyer points to the girl in her white wrinkled dress.
“The girl in the pigtails”, the lawyer man said,
“Looks for attention, not retribution.
She sees in my client, a fat glorious settlement check.
His client is the true the victim in this mess.
He couldn’t help himself, his actions understandable
For it was the way she dressed
With her shirt too low, and skirt shrunk too high,
Was he to blame?” The lawyer questions, “No thinks I.”
Such magic the Lawyer wove in his words,
Twisting and manipulating the very people who disapprove of this crime,
Into pliable shells, puppets at his disposable.
The audience, their red beady eyes, burning with the cries of injustice
Turns to face this man, this hero, this innocent.
Then like a brisk December wind of late,
Their attention moves in the direction of the girl in pigtails.
Now her chance comes, to set everyone right
Prove her claim, his guilt, and his shame
She stumbles toward the stand
The girl’s sorrow bleeding on that poke-dot-dress.
His Lawyer questions her focusing on the clothes she wore.
But the girl with pigtails, shouts:
“Should I wear a Burqa or Chador,
Like young Aisha Ibrahim Duhulow,
Who at thirteen was executed, the victim of the crime.
Why must I be punished for his lack of control?
I did nothing wrong, everyone looks like that in a club.”
The Lawyer laughs showing white blades,
Pointing to the audience, and cries
“Show me one person out there wearing those things,
You’re the type of girl intends not just displaying.”
“But I said NO,” the girl in the pigtails pouts.
“That’s what you say,” the lawyer shrieks,
“But actions speak differently, No meant yes,
For you smiled, you flirted, you let him think,
You even my dear, accepted his drinks.”
Humiliated, she watches as twelve peers agree
And each set him free.
At home, the girl in the torn no-longer white dress,
Polluted with stains, marks of distress
How she longs to go away, leave this mess.
For people on the road point and stare.
They call her names of vulgar relation.
How can she face them every day when they think of her that way?
So all alone, she sits and pouts,
While her TV shrine flashes on,
Images of girls like her dancing, having fun.
The show of girls, wearing shirts to low, skirts shrank to high,
Face no trouble from their guys.
Across town He settles down,
Celebrating at a local bar in town.
He spots a young girl, in golden curls.
Wearing her shirt to low, skirt shrunk to high.
And he buys her a drink.