The Healer
by Travis Blair



She called herself a spiritual healer.
Chanting in Spanish, she paced
up and down the room, making signs
with her hands, praying, calling down
healing from God-only-knows-who.
Her ritual lasted three hours. My ass
was leaden and my mouth felt like
I had swallowed a wad of cotton,
but I endured her entire charade.

Adrian was her intended prey. He hoped
she’d heal injuries suffered in a motorcycle
wreck. The ritual occurred on her casa’s
top floor, up a circular staircase tower—
wrought iron, white, a cliff’s treacherous
ledge. The airy room felt semi-heavenly,
apt atmosphere for shamanic sorcery.
But when asked three times if he felt healed,
Adrian answered each with a definitive No.

When we departed, we glanced at each other’s
faces and burst into laughter.
I wouldn’t call her a bruja –
though charlatan comes to mind.

His only criticism
was: That’s three hours of my life I’ll never
get back. I agreed. We walked back to town
eagerly anticipating a few cold beers.






Copyright 2017 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.