Louise Hay, the late metaphysical teacher, described eczema as
breath-taking antagonism, mental eruptions.
The only other part of my body that used to bleed
with regularity is my hands. Every February, the skin
around my knuckles would crisp
and I would line up my tonics. The Houston humidity
and my mother watched in disbelief.
Thirty years later, estranged
from both, I rubbed a new solution into my palms
as my husband cleared his throat
in the other room, turned off the light, then asked me
to come find his wallet. I squinted, strained, spun—until
I fell. My hands buckled against the hardwoods, then
flattened, steadying my torso. I pushed
my feet and palms into the roots of my house until I was bent
in two, then I rolled through my spine so slowly
I was barely moving. Once vertical, I walked toward
the front door, turned on the porch light, and left—
my fingers leaving a trail of aloe on the steps.
