Santísima

Metal heals. Colloidal Silver in the bath. Copper around your wrist. Steel on your foot to return your body to earth. Put gold on your eye to cure a stye that blocks your vision, put silver on your skin to salve a mysterious rash. My name, Gina, is silver, means silvery Queen. Regina purísima, Holy Mother of us all.

In my parents' apartment, la Virgencita hangs on the wall under glass, more beautiful than I have ever seen her arrayed. She's painted in watercolor and embroidered in silk thread, her robe scattered with silver stars. Soft eyes, soft hands above her perfect heart. My great-aunt Josefina made her, and signed her nickname, "Chepita," at the bottom. She died before I was born, a nun all but in order, of a cancer she kept as her own secret.

Once, I lived under a curse that blocked my throat. I could neither eat nor drink. An invisible hand coiled around my neck, choking. I vomited my own saliva, became desiccated and light. My vision clouded over and when I slept I lost my breath.

At a new age bookstore I bought a candle to clear the congestion of my silvery-blue chakra. The candle didn't help, but it was the color of the Virgin's shawl embroidered with stars, so I kept it, and lit it on days I was too weak to get out of bed.

At the clinic I shivered; the doctor grabbed my thigh and told me to keep wearing sexy little dresses. I regretted my dress. He suggested I calm down, then ordered feeding tubes to be run through my nose and throat.

Forever?

Until they don't work anymore. And then we'll remove your gullet and attach your stomach to the back of your throat.

No one would love me like this. I declined the tubes. My credit card declined too. I was on COBRA, bleeding out hundreds of dollars a month. Remember when la Virgencita stepped on a snake? Protecting us all from harm.

Another doctor told me that the muscles of my esophagus had simply died, just like a light switching off. Like a curse.

Did I ever see myself as someone's mother? How I answered the question depended upon the day, how ill I was in that hour. In the mirror I looked for beatific softness. Proof and promise of a miracle. Even if I could wear sexy little dresses I didn't believe my body would be able to sustain another life. Maybe the lights would keep going out. I needed an element powerful enough to reverse the curse.

I found a sliding scale naturopath who told me about homeopathy.

There's a drop of arsenic in a volume of water, and then it is diluted, again and again.

Until it's almost gone?

Until it's gone, absolutely gone. Nothing left.

But a trace? Not a trace?

Not a trace.

I wasn't sure what to say about nothing left at all, about pure water.

The molecules are changed, their structure disrupted and permanently rearranged, for having once held the poison. I never filled the prescription, only because I couldn't afford it.

From Arsenic I found Argent: silver. Silver comes from the moon. Nighttime. El cielo. La plata solves problems. Argent is for obsession, depression, anxiety, vomiting, vomiting, vomiting. Argent is for soothing the fear that behaves like a volcano. Something slipped in my brain; I tumbled down a phantom step.

A drop of silver like a prayer, a drop of arsenic like a spell.

I wore silver against my throat, even while I slept. Even so, I woke up throughout the night, coughing up moths. Angels roared fire in my ears. I took another job.

Take a deep breath, said the woman on the other couch. My therapist.

Take a Xanax, she said this time. I ended up in the ER with an IV drip, smooth dolphin skin gliding through my veins, dolphins swimming a silver river like heaven.

I'd keep praying for silver and let myself seek poison in the meantime.

That spring I...