Just around the final bend the mountains

will rise up in the back of your throat,

speckled like toads, and you won’t know

whether to puke or to pray, so that’s when

you’ll take your next left over the guardrail

right back into the welcoming territory of natives

who only speak passive voice, as in “these

varied members of the class Insecta that live

in your innards were fed to you by a sprouting

wink and nudge” and for once you will ignore

the editor’s red ivy and weeds, trust the experience

to plant itself, to speak the only words it knows.