Under the fading twilight, the gecko rises,
bones turned to obsidian, thick as thimbles
of forgotten haints—their hollow fingers siphon
shadows from the cracks in sunbaked clay.
Dark spills across the linoleum, slow as sin,
makes the soul go hidey-ho, scuttling
like a roach beneath the baseboards.
Black as an evangelical’s Sunday mass.
It presses the flesh with damp insistence,
whispers damnation through the vents,
the gecko unhinges its jaw, pearl-throated,
swallowing a hallelujah whole.
No tongues of fire here—just the slow drip
of wax from a votive, drowning its wick,
the walls exhale mildew and last rites,
something holy is always rotting.
Wow! This is a darkly, clever write! I liked the line “something holy is always rotting.”
I don’t totally agree with it but I liked that (I think) it sheds light on the duality of some religious figures. But that is only my take.
Well done!
Thank you. I write strictly fiction…no boohoo.
I see. I usually interpret everything I read with what-this-mean like mentality. Hahaha. Anyway. It was a good write. “)