Ode to Kaleidoscopes

whose patterns shapeshift in bursts 
of peridot and indigo, drawing harmony
from fragments. Like minhas línguas, 

whose plucked sounds dot my days 
à la Pollock. Or ma cuisine, peppered
with the piquancy of garlic,

the warmth of pot-au-feu, 
passionfruit’s tang.  
Perché io sono il mediterraneo fused

in the samba of América do Sul, lullabied
by the sabiá-laranjeira and the bem-te-vi, 
raised in the racket of Manhattan, 
where song is metronomed by sirens. 

Perché forests are not monocultures. And I
am the Amazon. Polyphonous. Tangled. 
Rivered by a mosaikoa of tributaries. This eye.
This tourmaline. This woodsmoke.