THE TWELVE-FOOT-LONG IGUANA

standing on the braided rug
in the middle of the room
is not a metaphor.
Despite its scrotal jowl, it is not
an oversized set of walking genitals.
Nor has it curled tailward
as Time would, devouring
what it excretes, excreting
what it eats.
Its double lidded eyes
are neither those of an angel,
nor those of an imp.
Primitive, watchful, unmoving,
the iguana has no self
truer than itself.
It is its own metaphor.
And its glittering scales
attract my eye
even as you press my palm
and whisper good bye.



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Copyright © 2008 by Bradley Steffens

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