The Queen

You told me that the sun had made you
black. In your face I could see the legacy
of a million queens and I knew that it must have been
our forever bent toward eternal fire that made you.
And when you lifted nine whole fingers,
telling us of your tribe and royal parentage,
both lost somewhere between this benchless park
and insanity, I believed you.
Like a volcano, like Iceland you said,
your last finger, your soul, your life in this city
erupted in to poetry, into rhythm
spoken by the fevered hungry who crouch
beneath liberty's yellow flag
(yellow was the color of your tribe), and sway.
They sway to make the world begin to turn
closer to the sun, burning our skin,
burning our memories of royal heritage until
forgotten you approached a group of strangers,
speaking swift poetry, lost, for want
of a reality that matched your burning dreams.