Jurisdiction
by Phillip Aijian
Justice and Divine Vengeance Pursuing Crime. Pierre-Paul Prud’hon (French, 1758 - 1823). About 1805–1806. Courtesy of Getty Center. (Click on image to enlarge.)
after Pierre-Paul Prud'hon’s
Justice and Divine Vengeance Pursuing Crime
One can’t help but notice the pitiful flame
of that apparently divine torch. It sputters
as though the wood were wet, or needs
shelter from an easterly gale.
Divine Vengeance might have preferred a brighter
interrogation for his subject—even de la Tour’s
glass-doubled candlestick from The Penitent Magdalene
would have been improvement. What light this
bashful brand offers seems all too outshined
by the brighter, if more conspiratorial
moon which, though full, remains
somewhat clouded beyond easy prosecution.
Its beams linger with merciless glare
on the skin of the corpse—
all the more spectral for being recently stripped.
And though he pursues close behind,
no one’s getting justice tonight—
which is to say, Justice will not get anyone
tonight, or even soon.
Divine Vengeance seems to lead the way
with arms outstretched but the hesitation
in his face is plain. Night wind fills his wings,
but doubts assail his mind and derail his focus.
He turns to Justice—not blind, for once—
and seems to ask: Are we sure this is our guy?
Nevermind that the dead man’s coat billows
from the clutches of the murderer,
not so much fleeing the scene of the crime
as trying not to trip
over his victim’s violated contortion.
Or, as if remembering previous muck ups,
Divine Vengeance frets over issues of procedure,
the immanent paperwork
which must ensue when charges are brought,
and defers to Justice: Why don’t you take him?
I’m not sure I have jurisdiction here.
Wherever
here is.
As for Justice, it must be said, he should
have brought a longer sword, though we doubt
not of its sharpness. But the moment after
this one seems ripe for error. In his zeal
for action, he’s likely to swing in a wild arc
and clip his neighbor’s feathers, or swat
that half-hearted heat to the ground.
And why bring the scales? So delicate
in their motions and balance, shouldn’t
they have been better left at the courthouse
or temple? I suppose some gratitude
is in order for so small a canvas
as though Prud’hon couldn’t bring himself
to depict such bleakness on a larger scale;
to see the world and its nights
as we all too often suspect.
Divinity again averts its gaze from our scene;
apprehending neither the criminal
nor his despoiled prey.
And though Justice arms himself with shining devices,
each one is more trinket than tool,
chosen haphazardly. What comfort, this?
Little. But more yet than offered
to the murderer himself, who will
we hope
always be looking over his shoulder,
whose stolen coat will never adequately warm,
and whose bare feet can only
bruise in
constant
flight.
Phillip Aijian holds a PhD in Renaissance drama and theology from UC Irvine, as well as an MA in poetry from the University of Missouri. He teaches literature and religious studies and has published in journals like ZYZZYVA, Heron Tree, Poor Yorick, and Zocalo Public Square. He lives in California with his wife and children. His poetry and art can be found at www.phillipaijian.com.
