The Scales Tilt

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

She once stood like a prayer,
blindfolded in marble,
her hands steady as gospel—
scales balanced, lips sealed
like the promise of rain.

People spoke her name
like they would an aunt’s
who taught them to spell fairness
with their mouths closed,
with backs unbent.

But now—
the blindfold hangs loose,
a silk ribbon around her throat,
more fashion than oath.
Her eyes kohl-lined,
lashes long enough to cast shadows
on the innocence she ignores.

She no longer walks.
She glides,
in heels that sound like warning shots
on the polished floors of courthouses,
her perfume sweet
with the rot of old verdicts.

She buys silence—
gift certificates for loyalty,
extra budget for delays,
a lunch meeting with steak
and wine the color of bruises.
She offers justice
in monogrammed envelopes,
the kind tucked quietly
into folders that don’t make it to the minutes.

She calls herself balanced—
a Libra still,
but her scales tip
before the evidence is weighed,
before the affidavit is read.

Now her good
comes at the cost of forgetting
who she used to be—
a blade dulled
by too many soft hands,
a woman who traded her blindfold
for a better view
of who she wanted to save.

No one tells her she’s changed.
They bow still,
as if reverence were memory,
not fear.
They let her pass,
watching the gold bangles
tremble on her wrist—
each one a case
she never closed.