Last of my Tribe

Night blooms the hues of longing.
Visit the east
and find my tears in the western wind
between the stones that remember
and the stones that forget.

And in me a heart like a ceremonial drum;
and in my blood the cry of a great battle;
and my soul grows the strength of my
ancestral tree whose branches twine my bones
and whose hairy bower sways in the breeze,
hair that now you tangle and muss with
your fingers in the moonlight.

You say I have beautiful eyes.
They are my grandmother's;
and my legs the strong legs of my mother;
and my hands the large, graceful hands of my father.
I am Frankenstein--pieced together of their parts.

I stand a proud nation,
and you see only a girl, alone