Poetry
Contents
Liberdade
Well, there is one thing that nobody doubts: the ones to teach capoeira to us were the negro slaves that were brought from Angola.
— Mestre Pastinha
I
Axé!
A passionate chant breaks the stillness of night.
Miles away, there are ships,
and chains, and branding irons
gripped by men who bind to feel strong.
But here—
The voices of twenty capoeiristas crescendo
as two step to the roda’s head. They squat
palms raised to their maestros,
and then extended to hold each other.
Locking eyes, acknowledging the indomitable humanity
in each other’s souls
they cartwheel into the game
Enclosed by the warmth of
Other unchained men; past, past and future.
This is the Ginga of the Full Moon.
II
423 years later…
I am panting for breath in a
well-lit capoeira studio. My gaze swings
across the room toward Caitlin’s water bottle.
Wallop
Now it’s back on Tiago.
He’s like me.
Unpredictable, unyielding, unbound.
The sweat deluging off him somehow
makes his skin radiate.
His dreadlocks swing back
with each spinning kick that
he springs, and I (barely) slide under.
Each time we dance like this, I
am reminded that
I am free.
Skinny Dipping in the Pacific
I am grateful for drunken foolishness;
because of it, I learned to love the sea.
All my life, nakedness had a reputation
as the father of shame, mother of lewdness
distant cousin of insecurity and older
brother of embarrassment. When I saw nakedness, I saw
its entire family tree.
But now,
I’m staring at the silhouettes
of my friends running into the water with me.
My feet seem to bounce on the beach, as
soft, damp sand gives way to
cold, briny waves.
Then, their silhouettes turn to face me.
The first rays of sunrise flush the sky
with just enough light for the three of us
to see each other smile, laugh,
spit out a mouthful of seawater,
and joke about how one vulnerable conversation
led to another, then another, and then
to this moment right now.
I am grateful for drunken foolishness;
because of it, I learned to trust all of you.