Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue One

Sarah Yasin

The Emperor's Traveling Shoes

To the one who hewed the skulls of his dominion with stolen steel-toed boots: when Death asks for you, will you protest? Will you wield your mace and pronounce: I'm wearing the wrong boots for the occasion? You wrung your realm into an obscured necropolis, but what literary renaissance emerges when you depart? No dynastic arrangement can stop mystics and martyrs and Um Ammarahs from arising as reverberations of your final directives disperse. In the midst of your menacing concert, incredibly, (notwithstanding the cacophony) you heard footsteps coming closer like clicks from bullet encasements bouncing against pavement, and the issue of Kalashnikovs. Despite your orchestration, all the staging to prevent your disfigured domain from articulating your wrath, you encountered a new discordance: you prohibited pen from touching paper, and jpegs and mp3s from recording and releasing, but you couldn't stop the engravings that were imprinted within those disfigured skulls. When you heard your evil deeds echoed back to you in the sonic agony of bomb blasts, in diesel exhaust coughing from tanks and in bulldozers' snarling engines, something else detonated in your direction signaling a final procession. You tried to conceal your own sounds, so you hijacked protesters to growl on your behalf, and you fabricated a thunderous report: I won't depart from my cemetery empire. And from those unmarked graves are rising merchants and potters and juries and songwriters, all who record and compile a remembrance of your noise and ascend to a victory beyond your dyssymphony.