Invocation

For days now, geckos and lizards 
       have slid up and down the walls, 
not only at dusk. The air smells 
       of burnt rice, boiled green shoots. 
When the sun comes out, it tints 
       small portraits through any surface 
with holes. Therefore my children 
       are offended when I talk of having 
the sense of running out of time.
       If only the light could carve
amulets on my arms, on my body.
       If only words were not fevers.