My uncle called me a rain forest baby.

swaddled in chewed-edge towels and
lavender shampoo still yet completely
washed from my hair-- he called me 
a rain forest baby-- asked where
they had found me--

I had waited a long time orphaned, 
lay in a clearing between
two ceiba trees where I had been born
from the wide lips and white 
nectar sugar of passion flowers
--startled the hummingbirds
who had not noticed the body
of an almost-human among the 
vines and the dew like
a boxed jewerly box of God--
I have always been so much
like a plastic fruit basket--
especially the grapes--
No-- I am
not a goddess or a prophet or
even keel billed-toucan--
but I could be some form of a
night monkey-- blank stare
on blank verses-- I was
taught poetry from the tight
jaws of howler monkeys and
from listening to the shy
meditative hum of insect throats 
and anxiously praying thighs--
The insects make
of the wind chimes outside on the 
front porch.

I wear dart frogs for earrings 
sometimes still to remind my family
I am not anything more
than a rain forest baby
with soft bones that bend like
vines and pearl necklaces--
wrap me up in chewed edge towels
I'll drink lavender nectar and
write like a howler monkey
and walk like a throat of a beetle.