I put more clay on two fingers,
dab it onto her face, around her eye.
I pray,
think of the trees,
the pool, my green bareket, somewhere in the water.
I think of Lola and imagine a Shabbat
with pandesal, coco jam, and lumpia.
When most of the clay is off my hands,
Malia starts humming, her voice like light.
Look! she cries.
Her red, swollen arms
are smooth, clear,
like the red was never there.
I am afraid to move, Malia whispers.
She mouths the words, What should I do?
I shrug. I don’t know.
I cover the jar again.
Do you feel different?
I don’t know, yes? No. Yes?
I mean yes—
I feel my skin,
it’s my skin!
She runs her fingers over her arms,
put her hands on her face,
pokes it a little.
Could this be?
A real miracle?