My mother mourns leaving her own country so deeply it runs through her veins into mine. Bangladesh is what she knows and what she loves. She spends her time showing me her culture: spinning through dances, running through poetry, and wading through history.

The West,

To me,

Is Capoeira.

Boundless

And filled with

Saudade.

It is

The macaws

Of the Amazon.

And the macaques

Of the tamarind trees.

Montana and Wyoming

The sprawling landscape of Yellowstone

Against towering mountains

Form a place that I’d never seen before

The animals and people you meet at pull offs

Are what make the experience an experience

Yesterday, I took a walk.

I went through the park,

I passed by one empty cup,

two used napkins,

three cigarette butts.

I jaywalked across the street,

past the hardware store

and into the coffee shop.

From afar

          it melts into the brush.

Thick, thorny weeds

          ravage its pitiful landscape.

It is forbidding terrain,

The sky gleamed a radiant blend of colors which reflected on the glassy ocean. The aroma of varieties of flowers fresh from the fields lingered in the air.

A cool breeze shuffled my hair, causing deep chestnut strands to tangle in my eye lashes. As my purse swung loosely at my hip, I slowly lifted my hand to shield my defenseless eyes against the brilliant sun. I exhaled deeply, letting the awe and amazement settle in the pit of my stomach.

Bumping the van, our holey road twists

onto the dark side of each mountain,

drawing us into night and the nervousness

of a stranger at the wheel in an unfamiliar place.

The stars are swallowed, the moon gone

The Ponderosa Pines hunched ponderously,

Their convoluted gestures frozen

With dry, rasping limbs in stages of vexation

And narrow forearms lifted high

In savored moments of exalted epiphany.

My brother and I climbed the questions

At the sparkling lake,

from the early morning sunrise.

With boats at high speed ,

with skiers behind them.

From the bright early mornings,

to the beautiful horizon of the evening.

The lake is an emotion

that sparks smiles all around.

The appeal of the beach is different

For everyone who visits.

Some venture deep into the water,

Their heads bobbing above and below the surface

Of the bittersweet saltwater.

Perhaps they crave adventure,

Letting the waves envelope their bodies,

Since the first breath of life,

one adventure to the next,

I can only reflect back in fondness

to the scattered pieces of my heart.

The losses we experience

The victories we achieve…

They become intertwined

With the places we inhabit

As we go about our lives.

Meaning and memory tie us to these places

So that even when we leave somewhere,

When I think of Iowa,

I think of cattle,

I think of the rattle under the road,

driving by humble abodes.

I imagine cornfields,

I imagine barns,

driving by the farms,

I hear the rumble of tractors,

I was once told that we must take adventures to know where we truly belong, meaning that we have to search to find the perfect place for ourselves. I do not necessarily agree or disagree with this statement.

Place: noun, defined as a portion of space available or designated for or being used by someone; i.e. one’s spot at the table, or if you think like me, one’s place in this world.