Your hair spills around the elastic’s fringe
the way pomegranate juice seeps between
my lips. Not that red, no; more burnt-orange
kinky. The gods have blessed you with obscene
tastes. “Molha tua boca,” you say. Wet
your mouth. Yansa is your mother, her blood
runs — “Minha flor que arde” — in your sweat,
your heat. Your flower of flame. First the flood,
call it Spirit, then the fire — She warned you.
Not with the tongue — A kiss there and all hell
will break loose. She knew what that toothsome rose,
sleeping among your burnished curls, can do.
“Lambe-me,” you say. Lick me. Make me swell.
Overflow. Let the world end with curled toes.
In Yoruba faith and religion the goddess Oya has many names; in Latin and South America she is called Yansa or Iansa, personification of fire, winds, violent storms, death and rebirth.