I stand straight and tall at the podium.
My wrists are shackled, as are my ankles.
The woman smirks at me with pearly whites.
I can only glare at her pale face.
What had I done to deserve this fate?
What was my sin for this accusation?
I am but a black man, wife dead, two kids.
And yet she tries to take that from me.
There was no rape, no harm really done.
So why do I stand here, chained down?
Because she is the one who had sinned.
That hateful, ungrateful widow.
I had no money, nothing to spare her.
But still, I allowed that wench into my home.
She attacked me, she violated me.
Yet I stand here, possibly facing death.
The judge has finally reached a verdict.
I listen carefully for his next words.
"Guilty," he says, his blue eyes accusing.
My life had died because of imputation.