Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

April 09, 2010

In a Belfast Arcade

I saw a black boy
in deerskin and headdress.
He wore moccasins on his feet,
beads about his brow.

Young and working
for the wild west, he was
hired for his dark skin,
in another's for a while.

This was his break.
Spurred by the moment,
he trod among Saturday strollers.
Shoppers stared at the Indian boy.

How they became him,
his skins, fringes and feathers
like foreign letters for the sacred
or absurd. Magic was bound

to him, however cheaply.
He had no time to lose. He strode
through, easily now, then danced
a conjurer's dance away, smiling.

Posted by Delire at April 9, 2010 03:52 PM
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