Faith, or A Walking Palm

by Audrey Molloy

West of Quito, in the saddle of the Andes,
where air is wreath and mist,
a woman searches for a sacred vine.
She’s heard the parrots chatter ayahuasca,
that it can set the spirit loose to wander
unrestrained by trunk and limb,
that it can bend the mind, or make it whole again.

Nothing is fixed; not to say that everything
is broken, or constancy impossible –
only that all of it is mutable.
Nothing abides – neither planetary rings
nor the metal dust that briefly shapes itself
to something vital, then unshapes again.
There is only possibility and a woman
searching botany books in vain,
studying time-lapse photography
for proof a palm tree, resigned to shade,
can work one stilt-root free
from darkness and, like God to Adam,
extend a finger towards life, towards light.

Beneath the canopy, a harpy eagle
makes off through the cloud,
carrying a sloth like an old carpet,
nerve and sinew clutched in its sleek
claws. To be slow can be fatal,
or it can save you. A tuft
of fluff floats down to feathermoss.
Slow time. Even mountains flatten,
and a palm, given patience, can shift,
infinitesimal as the orbit of a distant planet,
and walk slowly out of the shadows.