ALT Panhandle-colored skin. When I grow
/ Old you’ll see rows of cotton run above
/ My arched brows. My hands will return
/ To adolescence. But my body will speak—
/ Through aches and pains, I inherited/
Privilege.

ALT If I sang I was sinful, I was animal. Stole sips from circumscribed fountains. I said murcielago, my knuckles drew a ruler. I said San Judas, my arm was viced. Survived by christening the bruise a train track. Headed south and underground. To no nation and back to a nation that was mine.