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.
In the West,
I string words together like
beads.
Chew them in my mouth
Like the husks
Of amendoim.
It stays
On my lips
Like the taste
Of coffee beans.
In the West
I walk on wet clay
That stains
Like açaí.
Like açaí,
The West is bitter-sweet.
Inconvenient
Like the shells
Of things I break apart
With my hands.
Look inside.
And repeat.
The West, to me,
Stings like the bite
Of something I never see.
Yet, I’ve grown to love the
Sweat and tears
Of distant familiarity.