The Gecko
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.
Kimberly Townsend Palmer 