In the desert, the moon
shivers. Tonight, to stay awake, I’ll cut my feet
Outside Oaxaca, in a clinic, my mother said,
“I hate your Indian face.”
In the dream I’m running. My limbs skeletal
After my mother’s death, I found, in a box,
her wedding dress.
As I lifted the lid, a stench corkscrewed
into my nostrils:
the dress had curdled like milk. During the day
I gather tinder.
Paper. Shed snakeskin. When the last light
above the mountains
knots into stars, I crouch under mesquite,
make a fire.
Sometimes the moon stops shivering. Sometimes
I tally what I owe.
In the dream I’m ru