Reception

I finally find the witch. She is branch-

boned, old, with knowing fingers.

She says nothing. Walks me to a tall tree,

a gourd hanging from a long line of jute.

She pulls out a phone, asks me to type

a note to my family. I do it, but can’t see

how it can be sent from somewhere

so deep. She scolds me, says that only

tourists think the world can be escaped.

The jungle’s green is the wild mind

of God. The witch puts the phone into

the gourd. Hand-over-hand, she raises

this cradle to the top of the holy canopy.