Imagine

The healer said to me: it worked because you thought it would. I

let him palm my belly and chest; sometimes he shook and

closed his eyes. Inches above my skin, he'd sweep his hands like

smoothing sheets I couldn't see. I left our bed for years when I

was sick. I understood our children then: bed meant missing out;

bed felt like punishment. Now I sleep best at the edge—where

the healer sat to rest. Your hand reaches for my hip, holds on. Our

children's mouths sigh open in the dark. They're not surprised:

the healer touched me, and it worked. They've seen magicians—

beneath the sheet that's pulled away, something's always gone.

Source: No Acute Distress (Southern Illinois University Press, 2016)