CURANDERA

for Diana Velasquez



Bright spring day, and this young man
comes to me, black leather
jacket over shoulder,
hip style, but the feel is of
bile, held back: his body
the density
of lead,
and he doesn’t notice, beside the steps, my sizzling

zinnias. Gafas
over his eyes, and on his bicep
tattoo of snake, of big breasted
woman. Muy macho,
this guy, but none of this junk
is any good. I say “Take off those
gafas.” His eyes holes
where misery prowls. Finally I say it: you want

to die. This is not an idea
new to this guy, but catholics
are not to give the finger to God’s
creation. “Come back in a week, wear
a black suit, bring me twenty-five
dollars. Veinteciinco, don’t

forget.” I hire a coffin
any catholic would be
proud of. Lilies, the works. That day comes,
he comes, and I point to the coffin, and say “Get in

and lay down.” He’s so miserable
he does what I say, he lays down,
he’s muerto. Those who know him
come, the priest does his thing, incense, we sing,
ave maria, we pray—
then the viewing: one by one
we file by. I touch his hand. He’s

frio. People tell
how he was always going
away, would come but wouldn’t stay, and his
daddy—I had to pay that man
to come—the veintecinco
went to him—his daddy
says he was a real redrojo, sick, and a weak
little starvling, wouldn’t suck enough to keep a rat
alive. His daddy spits
when he says this. (As you can
imagine, married to such a man, his mamma

has already kicked the bucket.) Then others
say it too—weak, sick, no good as friend or husband,
bueno pa nada,
and sure not happy, so it’s
sad, but he’s better off

dead. They weep, they wail, they
go. I’m alone with this
muerto. And now tears like you wouldn’t believe that much
water and salt in one
man. And he speaks: I don’t want to

die. Sobbing
is medicine, it gets the blood going, he’s
moving now, getting warmer, all this anguish
is energy, and I say, ‘Sit up,
escucha. Your daddy didn’t
want you and you mama
was too sick to do you any
good.” Todavia, he says,
I don’t want to die. And I say

“Well of course not. Now remember
those zinnias beside my door? Those zinnias
want you. And the grass, igualmente,
the sky, squirrels, stray dogs, all underfed
cats and mosquitoes, Tweetie
and his little feathered friends—mi amigo, we
want you.” And for the first time
he looks at me, climbs out of the coffin,
says, “I’m cured! And I say

“You’re not
done yet. I want you to water those zinnias for me
every day, and you go to church
and say some prayers
for the trees. And remember old Mrs.Sanchez?
Three mornings a week she needs you—yes, you—
to walk her to the taxi, that’s at 8:30
when she goes for her

treatment. Y una cosa mas:
you will visit each person who came today
and take them a small
regalo, and when they say Here, drink some coffee, do you
want sugar, you answer yes,
and you sit with them, and you drink it,
and you look at them, and you
talk. Don’t leave
until you talk to them!”

I made sure he gave back to the community.
And of course, after that, he was well.