cunnilingus with a kick, erotic poetry, flower of flame, Oya, Portuguese translation, sonnet, wet your mouth, Yansa
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.