The sky lays itself down
on top of the earth
and fills in canyons and crevices deep in summer.
Here summer has carved itself into stone and glass
the warm uncovered dirt coats my skin
my joints, elbows and knees.
I am marked the color of the earth
Black soil, gold sheen, sky against summer's heat.

Then I take notice of my fingers
each cut with creases and curves like ten african princes,
adorned in red and silver and bronze with sacred head dresses
passed from father to son
worn for the first time
atop each delicate prince face.

Ten princes dance vaguely aware
that tomorrow they will be reborn
as warriors and lovers,
objects of desire,
fathers and husbands,
guardians and teachers,
grandfathers and uncles
brothers.
But tonight, on this night,
this eve of their manhood,
they are but princes
and so they dance.

So now you understand my pain
as i watch these magical fingers,
these princes, frozen as flowers unblossomed
convulsing in frustrated agony
night after night.

The world is ignorant of the ancient power
these mere fingers possess
but summer shall come again
and the fruits of these flowers released.
Liberation.

THE PEOPLE'S POETRY Vol.1