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My father once said there’s a little animal
growing inside me
& it builds things in there
old maps made of flowers, tiny temples
where lizards worship. How? I asked.
Where does your animal find material
to build?
Isn’t it obvious? he said.
From my memories.
The animal still knows the color
of my mother’s hands
the taste of blood when my father
struck me & peaches.
All the peaches I ate falling in love.
The animal knows me better
than a policeman. I’m called thief now
but an animal is growing
a rainforest between my ribs. I hear
colorful birds flapping
in my dreams & my pillows
are always damp with rain.
No, father, I say.
You’ve been crying.
You need help.
He wouldn’t listen. He lifted his shirt
& his belly kicked
I thought with an animal inside.
I touched it, my father’s stomach
& felt the pull of life.
Maybe not a builder of
temples or rainforests
but a small, lost
artistic animal