Maybe you found the remedy
in your Puerto Rican
herbal healing book
entry number five:
How to save a child.

Half witch, half monk,
you undressed
my languished body,
then almost numb
and carried it to the white
enamel tub,
which is really the color of milk.

And while you rinsed my back
and stroked my hair
you sang words in a foreign language,
which sounded like ancient spells
or a calling to the gods.

And I did, for a moment, see them.
The gods I mean, looking down
into the room, watching
your delicate hands grasping
the cup filled with water
which you then poured
over my shoulders hanging
loose, as if the string
holding them up
had just been cut.

But the gods must have left
a kind of pain, because I heard
a fracture in your voice.
A note went out of tune,
A verse was left
in mid air.

I think you wanted to cry, too.
Your breath stiffened.
Your stomach curved in,
but you let out
a chuckle, and continued.
You didn’t let your song,
or the muddy water
or the laughter of the gods
now gone, get to you.

You didn’t let go of the cup.
You never let go of me.
You never stopped singing.
You never stopped slouching
over the white enamel tub
legs bent, armpits resting
on the iron, eyes looking
into nothingness
your hands
doing all the work,
saving a child.

And I don’t know
if the book asked for it.
If it’s the secret
ingredient to the recipe.
If maybe it was the gods’ way
of giving back.

But it’s that split
second of doubt.
The breath fleeing the mouth.
The way the voice betrays the hands
that left me begging.