The gecko guards the stairs, clinging
wraithlike to the top step, and his small
supple body is curved like the mythic
salamander of old, his shape erotic,
gently sexual in a way I once
feared; even though he does not
move, he glows with movement in every
limb. As I slide by, his jeweled
eyes startle, and he scurries past
my foot, the tender fleshiness of his hide
taking the memory of love with it.
Long ago, I would have gasped
to see him near, my pulse racing;
I would have missed such beauty,
the shadowed pattern of pigment he
wears so thoughtlessly, the graceful way
he runs, undulating like a silk
scarf in a soft summer wind.
In the doorway, he stops, watching me,
wondering if I want to eat him.
Don’t be afraid, I say silently.
Let me see you for a bit longer.
I want to marvel over the mixed
colors of your iris, the iridescent
swell of reflected light, framing
this knowing miracle; the end of youth.