Costa Rica

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.

More Poems by Jacob Shores-Argüello