He tells me it's a good thing,
how I don't cling to old ways.
Nothing like my cousin or my mother.
I hear my voice on the phone,
having a beer with his friends
and I'm startled by the monotone,
stuttering acquiescence.
I think of the Swiss lady at the cafe
who heard me and my sister's
excited Portuguese and stopped us
To say the ups and downs,
the singing quality: all tell-tale
That we could only be Brazilian.

Do songbirds sound as sweet
when they return north for the summer?
I don't know. But last week I woke up
And for a dazzling second
I believed I was back at my grandma's
Expecting the smell of drip coffee
and star anis, to hear the faint
orchestra of ***** cicadas.
I remember the time I saw, flying above,
A pair of geese. From where I stood
Their long necks looked like tails.
But how, macaws? I thought.
Flying backwards, cold and lost,
high in the Northwestern flatlands.