By: Clara Rabbani

The West,
To me,
Is Capoeira.

And filled with

It is
The macaws
Of the Amazon.
And the macaques
Of the tamarind trees.

In the West,
I string words together like

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.
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.