Oh my dear Brasil:
Every time I think I know you,
You pull me over to another reality.
At once, I feel my temperature rising.
But while I wish it were a warm wash of romance,
It is all too often rage.
Is it a purposeful jabbing?
Do you do it out of mystery?
Or is it simply the “Brazilian Way?”
Can I entice you to show me
Why you must remain ever hidden?
Or will I say goodbye for a year, perhaps a decade?
I ask you this.
And you look to me. Wondering
If I am bluffing.
I assure you: I am not.
Do I continue to practice my Portuñol?
Or will you continue to reject my advances?
I will give you another day
To make up your mind.
After that, you can meet me up north.
This is getting old and so am I.
Waiting for you to meet me,
In the middle, somewhere.
(written in Brasilia, after a flight through Rio de Janeiro)