The sloth gives nothing away
between grip and swinging states
those button blank eyes, bowed mouth.
Oh,
they still their canopied cares,
hang in supple resting wraps.

My pulse feels like an ocean
at high tide when the moon crests—
Today, I sloth—give my weight
to the branches I cling to,
allow for inverted thoughts
head turned to each direction
gently scale my space and time,
enter energy save mode
without guilt or assistance.

I move lento to largo
while the earth spins its course,
feel the stretch it takes to bend.

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Rebecca Surmont lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She has a love of corn fields, funk, and tiny things. Her written work has been featured in publications such as The Awakenings Review, Nature of Our Times, Amethyst Review, Steel Jackdaw, Hare’s Paw Literary Journal, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Eunoia Review, Common Ground Review, Crowstep Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Review, and Tiny Seed Literary Journal. She is a leadership consultant and coach and has worked as a physical theater actor and voiceover talent.

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