Other Poems

If justice and only justice

Lamech's threat of escalating violence

by Ken Sehested

If justice, and only justice, is
            all we ask, none will
                        escape the hangman’s
                                    ugly work.

Some are less culpable, of course, no doubt, some did more, yes, some less righteous than me and mine, some more, some so much more, mucho mas more are worse than others and, in particular, worse than me,

            no comparisons can suffice, when you peel back history by continent, century, empire, pale-faced compared to darkest ebony, but back further still, looking for that original blameless one,

            not that I need to know, fully individuated self that I am, but still it’s the principle of the thing, justice being proportional and all, equivalency being what it is, not false equivalency of course, provisional consideration, by comparison,

            commensurate conditions, contrastive epilogues, contingencies galore, but ordered, right?, traceable correlatives, identifiable parallels, analogous reciprocity, allusive derivatives, if we could just get back to

            Abel, the original blameless one,
                        of whom is recorded only that he shepherded,
                                    only that he sacrificed, only that he was murdered
                                                by his brother Cain—

CAIN! you’re the one we’ve been looking for, finally, a fitting repository for all blame, the one who snuffed us all when he stuffed Abel’s breathless corpse into the ground, the soil that cried out to the Great Shepherd,

            here he is!, the culprit, he-did-it-first, blame him, we are but his not-knowing, no-fault, not-liable, not-competent-to-stand-trial children, and look, look at Lamech, the great great great great grandchild of Cain, like, he’s worse, he’s the one who announced that “if Cain is avenged sevenfold, surely Lamech seventy-sevenfold,”

            there’s your escalator if there ever was one, take him, I’m, like, small potatoes by comparison, by tantamount consideration, by relative conditioning, right?, the non-culpable progeny of the one bearing the “mark of Cain,”

            should have seen that before now, that’s the one, the original premise to this tangled conclusion, look, the mark is right there, in plain sight, for everyone to see, like, a neon light in a cloudless night.

            East of Eden, our fated home,
                        marked children that we are,
                                    Abel seeding Lamech’s threat, compounded
                                                epoch after aeon after era, bloodied soil wailing still.

Yet—who could imagine this?—Cain bore his mark, according to Holy Writ, as an ensign of protection, not a bounty hunter’s poster, backed by none other than Eden’s Architect.

The brutal harvester’s swath grows with each pass, blood exacting blood in kind, and more—as a deterrent, aping Lamech’s scale of recompense—to no end,
            feral marrow feeding on itself in escalating spirals to entropy’s tipping point and inferno’s edge, indeed, it feels like the end of the world as we know it, but remember:

Advent’s compass only work in such terrain, such disorder, such threat, when things fall apart in the tide’s turning to extorted tribute amid history’s wreckage, apocalypse now, walking dead and the like, but also,
            beyond every poll’s prediction, heralding angels emerge from darkest eclipse, turning ears to sheer wind, eyes to unseen horizons, wombs to earth’s fertile secret, all of which rend the heart, not to punish but to mend the world.

            Behold, the infant’s cry gathers up the sighs
                        of the ages, Mary’s mucus-smeared thighs
                                    dropping the Promise of deliverance
                                                into Joseph’s bloodied hands,

Heaven’s disarming initiative of abandoned privilege assaulting the logic of both human and divine vengeance, peasant shepherds, lowly animals, royalty from afar, attendant star and angels arriving as witnesses to Redemption’s extravagant
            resolve to draw all created order from the brink of calamity back to the joyful rest intended—to justice in a lips-locked kiss with peace under Heaven’s sheltering wing, assembling the nations from Eden’s expulsion to the lifted gate of the Holy City’s Beloved Community.

The Blessed One longs for companions and accomplices in this incendiary
            revolt against the rule of rancor, but that Way’s obligations include
                        enduring broken hearts and risky pilgrimages. Ah, but there’s
                                    manna to be had and encounters with awed, beatific wonder.

I can imagine this apocryphal statement from Jesus, to his disciples, before he departed:
            I didn’t say it would be easy.
                        I said it would be worth it.

©ken sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org