brought here in twelve-year-old fists
and never released
except in sprinkles that escaped in St. Louis
in Perryton, in Clovis, Albuquerque, Las Cruces
in Seattle, Houston, Denver
and maybe the last has been released
in Los Angeles
I am the rain of northeastern Brasil
danced in, played in, and mudded in
and dragged here in twelve-year-old prayers
and washed away slowly as he traveled
trying to find home in the wrong continent
I am the wind from the bulge of Brasil
out into the Atlantic, shaping it into an S
dragged into our southwest
to sigh into dust devils and sandstorms
and whisper into the storms of the west coast
I am the flame from Brasil
unable to burn its way home
kept alive in rage and resentment
and flaring now in these poems
carried away by readers and listeners
one spark at a time
I am a boy lost in his home country
a stranger becoming a citizen
and releasing into his new environments
traces of a twelve-year-old’s terrors
always hanging on to enough
to fuel dreams, memories, poems
and knit through, hold together
whatever makes up this me
now at seventy-three
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