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.