my father built the rainforest in my bedroom.

we pull the sound of the rain out
from under my bed before i sleep-- each
droplet a solid bead in my hand--
sometimes i wear them as a necklace
to show off to the dart frogs--
prove someone else can be poisonous--
other nights i string the rain 
together to built the wind chimes--
the toucans learn to imitate the
ringing of the water--
this is how we grew walking palms
to form the bare legs of 
my bunk bed-- my father
open a picture book like a bible
to charm the moss across
my body-- lichen quilted--
my skin learns to reject itself--  
i am soft and fresh--
a newborn fruit bat-- rib cage
tight as a fist-- we learn to
drink blood in our dreams--
the smell pulls us down from
the canopy to bite the necks
of the other family members--
my mother slept in the hollowed
out leg bones of a pine tree--
my brother in the shadow of a
sequoya--
when my father painted the walls of
my bedroom he pulled orchids
from the walls with a brush--
butterflies wriggled free from the creases
and toads rose from the pelt
of the carpet--
we heard the low growl of the tiger
from the closet floor
hiding in the underbrush of 
my old dresses--
when we opened the windows
the air only got thicker and
thicker and thicker
until the ceiling contorted into
another thunder storm--
i like it when it rains on me--
when the carpet is soppy
from flooding--
read me another chapter
i beg my father who takes
another book from the mouth
a leopard licking her fur from
underneath the laughter of the
wind chimes--
she's protecting our
stores so they don't sink back
into the soil--
we have a tendency to let
our memories get deformed
in the jaws of the tiger
gnawing quietly on
what was left of my dresses
oh my father still speaks 
in the language of the frogs
some nights--
pull a star out of his pocket
to make a nightlight--
tells me wherever i sleep
he'll grow me a rainforest
and he has never been wrong.