We wandered the beach before dawn,
the tide thieving the white beneath our feet.
At the edge of the resort property
a man with a rifle emerged from the jungle,
gestured roughly, ordered us away.
I remember horses gray as dishwater
charging into the ocean; the moon
bright as a car fire, its doors swinging open.
I remember a man’s song rising
out of a window, large as a marlin
muscling through air. Hunger
hadn’t come to us yet, but its wings
fluttered in the branches overhead.
I remember we had nothing
to do and everywhere to go,
except back–we couldn’t–
every step had become a door;
every breath a turning key.
Header photograph © M. de la Rosa.
Todd Dillard’s work has appeared in numerous publications, including Best New Poets, The Boiler Journal, Superstition Review, Nimrod, and Split Lip Magazine. He lives in Philadelphia with his wife and daughter.