Before the thonged bodysuit and heels,
there were fan-flairs, feathered tail skirts,
salsa dancers, gyrating musicians
whose horns bopped with Iris,
and she, with her red hair, swayed
and whiplashed, as her head bopped again,
to the congas, to the timbales,
signaling her entrance.
La Bomba de Puerto Rico broke God’s mold,
too voluptuous to be Adam’s rib,
too young to bear Abraham’s children,
but when the trombones blare
and the tamboras bang their beat,
Iris is the woman who ignites
a four alarm fire, and when the bomberos
arrive at the scene, she’s wearing her signature
black thonged bodysuit and heels.
She captures the fireman’s hat.
She’s captain on the fire truck
the drum roll begins her wild wriggle,
and she folds her legs,
one in front of the other, turns
bows and bends over to face
every musician on stage,
with her rear gracing the audience.
