At night I dream in green:
wet leaves pressed to my skin,
the hum of insects,
a jaguar’s steady gaze
in the cathedral of trees above.
I have never felt the weight of Amazon heat
settle on my shoulders like breath—
but I’ve heard it
in the hush of my father’s voice
when he speaks of home.
My father carries a jungle in his chest.
And when he breathes,
I can hear the vines moving.
He came from the belly of the world,
where children fall asleep in hammocks
beneath the open mouth of grandfather sky.
The stars blink like elders.
Marci Amma, moon keeper of stories,
cradles dreams
in her quiet light.
In the mornings,
the boys pick plantains for grandmother,
who fries them in coconut oil over flame—
sweet smoke curling into songs
only the ancestors remember now.
I carry it too, La Selva—
its language tucked beneath my tongue,
its rhythms stitched into my skin.
I do not speak
all my people’s words,
but I hold the silence in my hands
as if it were a seed.
One day, I will plant it
in soil that knows me.
One day, I will open my mouth,
and a river will come out—
singing everything
I thought was lost.
Ena Elder-Gomes (she/her) is a queer, Indigenous mother from the Yanomami nation, currently living on Wolastoqiyik land. Ena’s work is rooted in a deep love for the natural world and guided by the teachings of Pacha Mama (Mother Earth). She has performed spoken-word poetry at community open mics and has been published in CUUWA Magazine.