Politics of Justice


Yesterday Sergeant Chris Hurley

Walked smooth hair and broad-shouldered from the courtroom.

His stride was confident but his nostrils

flared ever-so-slightly

his face flushed the crude red of triumph

by the all-white jury.

But Mulrunji is dead.

Left to bleed his severed vessels

into his own body until

his life ebbed away

in the red flow.

Did you hear the low sobs of past thousands

echo in the island watchhouse?

And are you watching, Australia?

(What a clever trick)

Because we all got off

when Hurley got off.

@auth poem = by Laura Ealing

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