Sitting On The Back Porch With Oyá and Buk
Don’t ask her why the static in her hair
Makes cracklings that tell her where to
Lead the Boys of Wabansia Ave. I am
Leaning over the railing and the neighbor
Says, “Tell you what, that slut’s
Out of her mind, out of her tree
As she sways by, overhearing such phrases
Doesn’t faze her.
Hair so fine and electric.
Hat’s off and skirts up
As mambo music bougarabous
And the djembe waits for an answer
Resounding in the brass balls
Of an old bandleader gone
To the shadows of Oya’s yard
Clinging to all nine of her skirts
As the wind carries the eggy smell
"Don’t ask. Tell.
I tell you such fine music waits in the shadows of hell."