poultice

by Christie Chapman

Every morning you go to the potions. These come in tubes and vials and cases and sticks. They work if you believe in them. And you do. You have to. The potions are for important things, like beauty and youth. Also health but this is secondary. First you rinse your hands in the cool clear stream. Tiny discs float in crystalline liquid kissed by the sea. These you place over your eyes. Perhaps you will see the sea. Perhaps a person will see the sea in your eyes. Next is a serum that promises breath of herbs. Baby's breath. A fluff-headed wand for your ears, not the recommended use but surely the most common. You twist open a tube that disguises your sweat into perfume. A bar inscribed with insignia of dove, then three diamonds – age-reversing drops for creases that mark worry. Your last step is the most critical: conceal. Layer, like geology. Old earth beneath fresh flowers. Obfuscate, costume. Ivory for what's red, red for what's pale. Dark for what's pallid, light for what's dusky. What's cleansed is not enough. It must be concealed. Nature is not enough so you go to the potions. They work if you believe in them. They soothe ancient wounds if you believe in them.

Photo of Christie Chapman

BIO: Christie Chapman is a writer and mom in Springfield, VA. She is a three-time participant in the George Washington University English Department's Jenny McKean Moore Workshop, for creative nonfiction and fiction. Her work has been published by The Lascaux Review, the Washington Writers' Publishing House, and the Good Men Project, and nominated for Best Microfiction.