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.