Watching Lizards

for A.

 

The day we watched lizards

behind glass,

we lost track of time

and incited the ire

of an angry husband

who suspected

ulterior motives;

it was then I knew

how little he knew you.

Collapsed in a heap,

they sought the warmth

of a glass bulb

on their collective mass,

unblinking, unflinching,

quietly growing tails;

eating without appetite

when the occasion arose

fascinated, we pressed

against the pane,

you and I,

like children, we talked

to each and every one

and discussed the physics

of reptilian union,

entranced

by their discernment —

which came so naturally

to you

but sometimes

we’d feed our senses

with flavors of light:

simple and noble,

turnip cakes and parchas

tastes of jungles and rivers

where maybe we’d once

been sisters

and we’d close our eyes

and shamelessly delight

We came so far

from the day we first met

when you frightened me

with your style and grace,

and your child’s face

but I didn’t mistake you,

not for a moment,

when your voice crackled

like someone burned;

when your black eyes betrayed

the secrets of lizards

living under pyramids,

the mysteries of scarabs,

the bending of music

under benthic depths

You were pink and lavender

and smaller than snowflakes,

drawing cheers

from teenage boys

but I loved you for your mind:

wingbeats of angels

flitting amid the graves

and darkest orchid imaginings,

stories of primordial hibiscus

pregnant with grandchildren,

their crimson wells

attracting workers

to serve the Queen,

and wasplike secrets

of what you enjoyed

and how you’d been stolen

so many times,

used until you broke inside

yet you never fell down:

a tail regrown,

a soul reborn

in the same life,

bright salamander

entering the fire

and emerging whole —

dignity radiant in your gait,

metal glinting behind your laugh.

If he just looked in your eyes

for a moment

he would see what I saw,

and know why

you lingered so long that day,

why the lizards pleased us so

and he would cherish

and honor you

like the paradoxical moon

but all I could do was take the bus

on a cold morning

after sleeping in the world

by your side,

and know that you will be hurt again

as he sharpens his edge

on the grindstone he made your heart,

thinking you belonged to him:

but I always knew

you belong only to music,

to the angels of shadow and light.

One day you were gone,

and I never forgot you—

not until you turned over the rocks

and found me again,

telling me everything

how you escaped

without even a cup,

living in borrowed places

like you’d once lent to me,

so what could I do?

I gathered everything I had

and offered you more.

And I will offer again, anytime you ask:

familiar,

sister,

playmate,

queen.

I know you are well

and in your own sphere.

I have learned your rhythms

and you remain in mine,

crossing and uncrossing paths

even in the face of silence.

I don’t need confirmation

of your affections,

or a phone call

to know my location

in your heart.

Yet I admit,

I’m missing you:

I await a day

we’ll watch lizards again—

enjoying mysteries of forked tongues

and the stone stillness of their repose;

I miss your turnip cakes

and the call and response

of your daily narrative—

the pride of being needed.

I miss the backstage pass

into the sanctum of your senses

where we met and connected,

relieved,

washing our souls

in the colors of our company.

©Sarah Millogo 2007