He told me not to go,
but, it was too late when he called, I was already sipping on yage: sacred leaves mixed up real-
good with sacred vines,
transporting me to an in-between dream, as he spoke the words.
He told me not to go, and there was something else, also – that didn’t matter now.
I had discovered the cure for my unrest in her: Ayahuasca, my spirit rope keeper.
She dropped down the woven ladder for me to climb.
“Come on up”, she said and I obliged.
Up I went, rung by plaited rung, never looking down.
And while his voice faded in my ear, the sweet, dreamy, dream dew drops clouded my eyes.
Oh how those rainbow prisms glowed, beholden only by those who made the trek,
somewhere above these pollution-ridden skies,
never looking down, but always up,