In Recife, million-strong metropolis

that points its Brazil­ian nose at Africa,

on an avenue named for a famous baron

so rich he owned eight sugar cane plantations,

so impor­tant his name­sake links an airport

to the lapping green waves of the Atlantic -

in the very middle of that street

flanked by a pair of gravi­o­la trees

pro­tect­ed by thick stucco walls

that menaced with claws of jagged glass

sat my little blue house.

Morn­ings, wheel­ing the stroller,

I escaped from its fil­i­greed bars into that equa­to­r­i­al heat

where bare-chested, bare-foot boys dashed past me

as I walked towards the home of the silver-bellied planes

where the shops were air-con­di­tioned and

sol­diers in pol­ished black boots guarded them

with machine guns and las­civ­i­ous smirks

to where my toddler would learn to walk

and could watch the sad-eyed manatee circle

round and round a tiny palm-lined pond.

Evenings, when the baby slept

when the cool night air descend­ed like a prayer,

I walked away from the honking VW bugs,

the smoke of over­loaded buses, walked alone

towards the pulsing sea to sing songs of moon­rise on the desert

where a host of rats rose from among the jagged rocks

their beady eyes trans­fixed by my melan­choly melody,

an entire chorus line of them, paws poised on tummies

heads cocked as if they con­jured the moment

I would lead them away.