The curandera standing

Bare feet firmly on the ground

Toes grasping the soil between them

Palms open by her side 

Head tilted upward, closed eyes, 

She sends messages that reverberate

Whiffs of resonances onto the leaves

In the forest that harbors her strength.

My addict mind, always a humming V12

Only sometimes slowing, as if resting.

She squats and summons, 

I lie on my side, head on her lap. 

She grasps the air in my soul

As she tugs my face into her belly — her  world.

She is not my mother, 

But the angel from the ashram,

The witch from the ayahuasca ceremony,

Taking me to the spirits of those forests, 

Where pain and loneliness 

Are pulled deep by the roots of trees.

My mind stops —

And I find peace with tears.