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 running through a hallway. The floor uneven. The walls green. Last month, as my son blew out the candles on his cake, I noticed, for the first time, the hideous shape of his nose. Tonight I’ll pinch my thighs to stay awake. My mother, in the clinic, said, “The rain has a fever, it needs plenty of rest, it needs to drink plenty of water.” The doctor scribbled in a file then asked for more money. If my mother could see me now! My feet bloody. My face darker than ever. Tonight, to stay awake, I’ll sit close to the fire. In the dream I stumble, but I never let go of my right breast: an urn heavy with my own ashes, an urn I’m lugging God-knows-where.