The Throne of Weapons

In Africa, there is a Kester chair
A throne of sorts by design
To most men it is a seat unkind

Hand-crafted for unkingly royalty
Not to be sat on ordinarily

In Africa there sits this chair
Its back, arms, and legs explain
How we see ourselves easily sitting there
A metaphor, this chair -
It underscores the maxim
That when war is over
Rule is always unwisely wielded
By retired soldiers

The legs of this chair
Are barrels that are heat-warped
The arms are G3s
Made by the Portuguese
A recollection of hidden smiling faces -

And of when the dust of the African scramble
Settled.
And Mozambique became
Broken-
Free.

And had to fight itself
And eat its own parents
Leaving behind orphans
Learning to shoot guns
Taller than they were

And now the winds carry loudly
The cries and hearts' clamor
Of the slain and maimed
By monsters that still live in shadows

So here sits their monument
Smelling sharply of polished
Wood grain and machine oil
Gleaming in gun-black muted silence
The coiled quiet of violence
Of swords wielded into repurpose

Here sits a metallic mashup of a mindset
Finally being over-throne
So that maybe now, its unsettled past
Can recline into a future
That its children might one day want to own