Cactus Tea

David Maas

I – Custom
A medicine was once made in the Andes of Peru:
Ancient knowledge of a Cactus sacrament brewed
into a tea, simmered for days on a low flame.
It was tasteless for the pure of heart; they drank
to journey for a day into the spirit world.

II – Ceremony
Let’s have a day to bask and stroll; a venture
with magic cacti, our wise teacher. We hope
for smiles; are we not deserving hearts?
A yellow plastic cup: our sacred vessel,
and we’re maybe-smiling over a bitter alkaloid pulp.
We drink, and sip, at a bitterness so sharp and thick–
we retch in slime. A grimace, a half hour
to gulp, and the lemons help a little
while they last. And then it’s ticking clock, and unexpected
nothing, nothing changing, not even the nausea
that turns our squirming stomachs…
Now my head is buzzing–
What will happen to us, these children,
lost in Echinopsis pachanoi and expectation?

III – Sunrays
We can see sun outside through the window
So bright and open, the wildly free Out-there!
The thought of remaining gloomy-indoors
becomes inconceivable. We have time to grab
a football and a sweater; it’s chilly the day after rain.
We emerge from our dwelling; the Sun
drips from behind clouds, and we wonder
has the World always been this beautiful?
I watch every blade of grass, breeze-swaying;
My cactus eyes rapt; vision as sharp as spines.
We marvel at scenery patterned of infinitesimal thorns,
and of leaves, clear and vibrant in their textures.
Trees poke out from holes in a vast cement expanse.

IV – Mescaline
And so, walking, we depart for a nearby park
And arrive uneventfully, save for brief sight of a purple
possum, scurry-hiding himself behind a tree.
More familiar animals make their presence known. A cat,
the birds, a few squirrels communicate with me.
We share the world in close moments.
My friends laugh, and watch the clouds form faces,
lying in the damp grass and peering off into the Infinite Sky.
Clean euphoria biting at my soul, remembering
All that I am, my chemical brain sees the jagged methoxy
arms in Everything, looming off that gentle phenethylamine
skeleton. I am Spirit, unlocked by a molecule.

V – Coda
Hungry, returning home in late afternoon full of hope
We arrive to find a sink full of dirty dishes. Whose
are they? We’re arguing, I can hardly stand
the shouting and fighting. We take turns
washing plates and knives; soapy bubbles
follow such intricate paths in their dance,
remarkably lovely to see them form and float and burst.
I find solace in a spoon’s newfound cleanliness,
and hot warm water on my working hands.