The Pier of La Herradura

When I sleep I see a child
hidden between the legs of a scarred man,

their sunburnt backs breathe cold air,
the child faces me

and the pier’s roof swallows the moon
cut by the clouds behind them.

Sometimes, they’re on the same roof
wearing handkerchiefs

and uniformed men surround them.
I mistake bullet casings

for cormorant beaks diving
till water churns the color of sunsets,

stained barnacles line the pier
and I can’t see who’s facedown

on boats lulled by crimson ripples.
Once, I heard the man?—

alive and still on the roof?—?say
today for you, tomorrow for me.

There’s a village where men train cormorants
to fish: rope-end tied to sterns,

another to necks, so their beaks
won’t swallow the fish they catch.

My father is one of those birds.
He’s the scarred man.