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 reches 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.