The geckos come out at night,
desert brown with bulging eyes and labial mouths,
adhering to the stucco with splayed toes,
drawn by moths and other winged insects — 
comically large mosquitos and endless varieties of beetle — 
that perch in the glow of the porch light.
Alien in appearance, with voracious appetites,
they cling frozen in place, patient as beggars, 
before striking.

When you move out, you take the shower curtain.
Our faux antler handle kitchen knives.
The bleached cow skull we bought down in Nogales.
Half of the set of Mexican blue glassware,
the incense burner and good CDs.
A decade of laughter and a few tears, 
increasingly tears.

That first night alone, I sit on the porch 
drinking tepid Tecate, wondering how things might go 
now that I’ve been unstuck from love.

My life might get better, I say aloud
to the high silver moon.

Coyote laughs. The saguaro remain silent.
The geckos begin to feast.