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.

In the West,
I string words together like
beads.

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
Waiting for Old Faithful to burst

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.
I ordered a small latte,

From afar
          it melts into the brush.
Thick, thorny weeds
          ravage its pitiful landscape.
It is forbidding terrain,
          with a pothole landmine and shattered windows,
          looking like gouged eye sockets.

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
from the rough highway and jagged peaks.

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
They grew,

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,
Or the buildings disappear

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,
the thunder in the sky during summertime,

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.