She touches the tip of her left index finger on which a wart once grew. It isn't there now, but she knows it was therewhen she was a child. She did not imagine it, did not imagine the various attempts different people in her family took to excise it—…  | By Luisa A. Igloria on September 6, 2024 | She touches the tip of her left index finger on which
a wart once grew. It isn't there now, but she knows it was there
when she was a child. She did not imagine it, did not imagine
the various attempts different people in her family took to
excise it—small, searing dabs from a Q-tip dipped in muriatic
acid; frog piss (or so she was told) brushed on its surface; some
passes from a sanitized razor blade. Who knows now what was true
and what was made up? In that world, you could burn a tonic from
reptile scales. You could sleep on pillows of ash or ice or break a raw
egg into a bowl of water to read messages from the dead. How
did it finally vanish, melt away into simple skin? She can't explain
how she has no memory of this—no memory except a white
flash, then the blue ceiling; a dribble of water, then its evaporating. | | | |
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