Adhesion

Do geckos know no vertigo

that they cling to the ceiling

to grope, entwine, mate violently,

unafraid of the waiting fall?

In this very room, years ago

buried within my lover’s mound,

I, thirstily drinking her up,

declared my love, undying love –

until she screamed, said – Stop! She

took my face in her hands, kissed the

wet lips, pushed me back, said – Relax!

She took me in a breath, loved me,

kissed my chest, marked me with sharp

nails, drew the grave where we’d bury

our secret. Then we went strolling

at midnight. Pokhara asleep

already, full-moon on Fewa,

Machhapuchre, lonely as ever,

watching me and my steadfast love

steal kisses outside shuttered shops.

But, no more is there her sly sigh

when welcoming to the pillow

her damp hair, or her neck to kiss,

or my hand on her arching hips.

Above me, unperturbed by the

ceiling fan, two slow, fat geckos

twitter their twined tails, cluck and clack

shudder briefly, as if they will,

without the glue of quick courting,

fall from the ceiling, fall from the

glue that equates them to dumb us –

who thought love would last forever.