The Night of the Iguana | Derek Pollard

Burton and
Gardner in
Black and white
On the wall
Next to me

Across North Temple
The spinning wheel
Of the Gateway Inn

Dusk gone green
Beside The Red Iguana


The light outside
Florescent now
And deepening

Muriel set
To arrive soon
From Cincinnati

Here the air
Smells of
Cilantro and
Pumpkin seed

Cage’s Work
On Paper echoing
The napkin
On the table

With salsa
And a strand
Of lime

If only these
Trumpets could
Bring me the sea

Instead I am handed
Another Modelo
Wrapped in chintzy 
Gold leaf

My watch
Ticking louder
Even than
The three kids

Up and down
On their chairs
At the table
Behind me

It’s the middle
Letters in the poems
That I keep staring at

Wondering if Cage
Is laughing at me

Burton and Gardner
Are even now
Simply ravishing

The mountains
Gone black behind
The storm clouds
Out over the salt flats

Muriel is in flight

Chicagoland, Chicagoland
Ma puce in cloud

The beer is cold
The enchilada sauce
Thick as blood
Drying dark
On my napkin

It seems too easy
For us to succumb
To this moment

The mesostics
Leading us all
The greeny night
Over North Temple

The storm already
Beginning to fall
Away from the valley

The music 
And the children
In their careless

While we move closer
To one another

You through the air
And me through
My waiting

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Contrary ® is a registered trademark of Contrary Magazine
The Figure of Authority | Thomas King
What Mary Did | Sarah Layden
Tithonus | C.E. Chaffin
Homecoming | Patrick Reichard
How You Remember Her | Amy Reed
The Night of the Iguana | Derek Pollard
Generations of Leaves | Taylor Graham
Three Poems | Patrick Loafman

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commentary | poetry | fiction | chicago | summer 2007