Testament Scratched into a Water Station Barrel

In the desert, the moon

shivers. Tonight, to stay awake, I’ll cut my feet

with glass.

Outside Oaxaca, in a clinic, my mother said,

“I hate your Indian face.”

In the dream I’m running. My limbs skeletal

and scabbed.

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