Testament Scratched into a Water Station Barrel (Translation #11)

Humane Borders Water Station, 2004, by Delilah Montoya Far from highways I flicker gold the whispering gasoline if  I pinch her nipples too hard no joy for her no joy for me so I practice on ticks press them just so so they give but do not burst beneath my boots thistle & puncture vine a wild horse asleep on all fours its shadow still grazing my lips black meat my tongue black meat in my backpack sardine tins saltines & a few cough drops the moon is my library there’s a glacier inside a grain of salt do you understand I’m sorry my Albanian isn’t very good tremble if  God forgets you tremble if  God remembers you out of clay I shape sparrows I glaze their bills & claws I give them names like gossamer inglenook lagoon she bathed a trumpet in milk her tenderness acoustic & plural her pupils perched in all that green there’s nudity around the corner bones cracked & iridescent sometimes it rains so hard even the moon puts on a raincoat zinc razz zinc jazz I notch my arms I notch my thighs five six days I score my skin but not the back of my knees two ovals two portraits my son at ten his eyes ablaze my son at one his eyes shut once I dressed him in burlap once bicycles & marbles once I tore rain out of a parable to strike down his thirst