Rite

Vodu green clinching his waist, obi purple ringing his neck, Shango, God of the spirits, whispering in his ear, thunderlight stabbing the island of blood rising from his skull. Mojo bone in his fist strikes the sun from his eye. Iron claw makes his wrist. He recalls the rites of strength carved upon his chest. Black flame, like tongues of glass, ripples beneath a river of sweat. Strike the island! Strike the sun! Strike the eye of evil! Strike the guilty one! No power can stay the mojo when the obi is purple and the vodu is green and Shango is whispering, Bathe me in blood. I am not clean.