Invocation

Oya! You swept me up                                  

one stormy month of nights,

out of my bed to praise You.

You took me with You in return

to Your rich night,

down Your dark hole.

I rode between Your crescent horns,

descending, waning as we went.

(I clutched the red forelock of Your fur,

ember burning into all yearning!)

Your Spiral sucked me in,

taught me to breathe.

Your solar wind, Your Northern lights,

taught me to let You

breathe me whole.

I am a girl as I emerge.

I walk the village market path,

nesting a basket of red beans

upon my turbaned head of curls,

dark-skinned with night,

light-fingered, naughty, bold

in the moon’s red light.

I am a mother of Africa nine times!

You know I am Your daughter!

Let me dance amid Your swirls.

I am a weaver of Your cloth,

patch-working Your streaming dreams.

My life is attic-bundled away,

but change is coming any day.

I pull my skin, my hide aside

to show my children love, my young!

I am a sweeper with Your broom.

Both breezy words and hurricanes

I craft upon Your rustic loom.

Oya my Mother!

Let me taste

the lightning hidden ‘neath Your tongue!

A little spark is all I need

to set my words of praise afire,

to fan the embers of desire,

a little kiss, a little breath

to tide me well beyond my death.

© Tamara Rasmussen 2018