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A Real Man

has marks on his chest from the sunny day

When he pierced his flesh with hooks tied to a pole

and danced an ever-outward spiral until the tension ripped out chunks

of suffering from his people.

His Brother fancy dances

quicker with each pulse of the drum.  Feathers dyed

red chase his writhing body around the circle; he whirls

like an eagle rising bloody from battle.

His Grandmother shuffles around the fire,

her trailing black cloak flooded with names

of kin, warriors who died in World War II, Korea, Vietnam, all

for the homeland that reserves dust for their families.

The Drummers sing louder with each repetition, their rhythm pumping

blood through their veins harder, faster, until with a thunderous clap

it ends.   Yet

our hearts still beat.