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89 Ancestor There, claws sunk in a river snag, hangs a wrinkly skinned iguana as long as I am tall. I can’t explain his goiter, nor the prickles beneath his chin. Along his back vestigial spines droop like a bad comb-over. One eye he keeps on us while we steal closer. Why hang there in the heat, instead of bellying up to the mudbank? Maybe to him, one who must take in whatever warmth he’s going to have, this choking sauna’s as close to nirvana as this incarnation’s going to get. ...

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