by Salik Shah
An obsidian arrowhead
sticks out of Nataruk’s skull
like the boy emperor’s
decayed tooth
—a dumb relic of regret,
quarantined peace.
On prominent display:
seared columns of his fabled empire
bleached bones of his peacock throne.
There were times when his bush-black
hair harbored lightening;
when babies weren’t printable
like maps or ships;
a time when people knew that pulsating roar
of intelligence—now hovering, already gone—
was the sound of the man
eating himself.