The Sloth

Her back is an ecosystem, algaeic and wrapped beneath a canopy’s sun. Arms forever up and out above her head—she is this tall. No height, no dangers below, will blanch the beast; she sees no fear. A fall will seldom kill her. Nun ordained to pliancy, she’s slowness made devotion. The monkeys run right by her, skitter-shows their onus; harpy hawks with sudden plucks plunge, their hunger flown. It is true she cannot walk —when basic need or poor luck grounds her, she’ll have to pull herself along the muck of forest floor. So she hangs, even after life, from branches, fool-like, face to sky, her backward-growing coat a woolish habit. Even at the tops of trees, she blends in. She is cool, and shy seeming; Her cry’s a sure ai, ai.