“I Don’t Speak Portuguese, But If I Did…” by Gabriel Shanks

They stagger at you, sidewalk god
And wonder how you came to what you are
And why you did, and did it hurt
And did that stain make it better or worse

Just a tattoo? You and I know better.
Fools may glance and miss you, sure, but
I see kingdoms gleaming from your lobes
like morning in the rain forests

Your sleeves speak as you amble
In dialogue to nineteen centuries
In tongues we've never heard
In vocabularies we don't own

In your strut are pluralisms, histories,
The pride of twelve grandmothers
The blood of long-dead kings
The memory of river water

Brazil is older than its sand
And you, stained-glass vase,
Hold it, wade it, mine it,
Crossing every city block.