Feast of St. Erzulia

Let the wind carry this sound up and far,
From my lungs and yours, the yes
Of bees' wings thrumming
And orchids trumpeting delirious with color

You were never meant for oubliettes
Or fainting couches, but for dancing
In wide places (how you shine, flossy thing!)

And free, now you are
From the dread of needles and prongs
And grave-faced doctors,
Let us chew up our orders and
Steal napkin weights, and try all manner of magic,
And in the beats of the pounding bass, know
We were made for the swell