Some part of me believes I was born
in the green of the Southern Hemisphere
to be having a conversation like this:
Quem é ele, afinal, Como-Ele-se-Chama, hm?
about such a strange thing spinning
backwards on the windowsill,
bright as a penny from the favela
and as brown. They tell me it’s “my motion,”
dangerous but dreamy, like the samba.
They say this is the monster I have become,
the corner turned one day while day-
dreaming. There it is again, little favela
dweller, malingering in my window
with wry smile and a shiny knife, waving at me,
the sage world spinning golden just beyond.