I don’t trust Big Pharma, Margaret frets,
but Mexican folk remedies? Mushrooms?
Herbal teas, lime juice, turpentine?
Aren’t curanderos just faith healers?
Tepotzlán’s ancient shaman, Don Pedro,
blended Náhuatl with Spanish—duet
of reed flute and Flamenco guitar. He patched
my bloody finger with warm belly fat
from a tlacuache—Mexico’s beloved marsupial.
Tore a strip from my yellow silk scarf
to wrap his handiwork, warned me
not to wash my hand. I had nightmares—
infection, amputation—yet my wounded hand
felt cool, no longer throbbed.
A week later he removed the bandage—
no lump of putrid fat, just a pale ridge
of ropy skin. ¡Perfecto! A perfect graft.
After fifty years, even the scar has disappeared.
Faith healers? Auras? New Age crystals?
¿Quién sabe? But curanderos…
I’d almost forgotten my tlacuache transplant.