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