I went to see my brother dance
arrayed in tribal dress
adorned with feathers, beads,
a breastplate, and lance,
the work of his hands.
It seemed unnatural
for them to have gathered indoors,
in a coliseum, away from tree
and grass; blocked from earth
like birds caged.
I sat to watch them twist
and turn, feathers and wind,
color flowing into color while
the drums pounded old rhythms
and singers sang their songs.
But their moccasins
touched no earth. No sky
reflected in their fiery eyes,
no fire warmed the air
and it all seemed sad, somehow.
My brother did not dance.
1/13/11
edited 10/27/17
Copyright 2011-2017 John W Flournoy