Lizards

The fetor strikes me first,

and then I find them, a pair of shingle-backs

with armoured scales of polished brown.

They lie close together by the sandy track

that takes me along the high-line of a dry lake.

The smaller of the two is dead.

Mobbing flies and his sinking, say to me,

they’ve spent some time like this.

She’s unflinching.

I stop to wonder how long a novice widow

might keep her vigil. Maybe she’ll go

when he’s lost all resemblance to the one she knew,

or when hunger foreshadows her own decease.

I can imagine a crow might drive her off.

My reductive eye—its blinkered flash—

sees only instinct here.

Even though a pared-back vision is not without

its place,

I’ve feelings for this cold-blooded

couple.

They lived alone much of the year,

then each season, still enchanted—imprints held

in memory—they’d meet up again.

How will she live with what was and is no longer?

I stand by them and the last of the evening

light falls into bed,

true as the lake flats.