Testament Scratched into a Water Station Barrel (Partial Translation)

After Rita Dove Apá, dying is boring. To pass las horas, I carve our last name all over my body. I try to recall the taste of  Pablo’s sweat. Whiskey, no. Wet dirt, sí. I stuff  English into my mouth, spit out chingaderas. Have it your way. Home of the Whopper. Run for the border. ¡Aguas! The mirror betrayed us. It erased your face from my face. Gave me mother’s smile, narrow nariz. Once, I wore her necklace. The gold slick, obscene. God, I was beautiful. Cada noche, I sleep with dead men. The coyote was the third to die. Your money is still in his wallet. Quien engaña no gana. Apá, there’s a foto, in my bolsillo, of a skeleton shrouded in black flames: Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte. Patron saint of smugglers, pick- pockets, & jotos. La Flaca. Señora Negra. La Huesuda. ¡Aguas! An animal is prowling this station. It shimmies with hunger. It shimmers with thirst. To keep it away, I hurl my memories at it. Your laughter is now snagged on its fangs. Your pain now breathes inside its lungs. Taste the feeling. Siempre Coca-Cola. America’s real choice — I gathered & smashed bottles. Apá, follow the glass snaking from the barrel to a mesquite to find my body. Lips blue, skin thick with scabs. Apá, kneel in the shade, peel the scabs. Touch our last name. Solís.