parkland, florida

in a town sinking inches every year
back into the everglades,
we spent summers plucking petals
from wild orchids, testing fate
and trying to get lost on
roads we knew like old adages.

loxahatchee road was wild,
following the curve of a creek,
a streak of dirt that cut the county
clean in half. once at the end of it,
eighty ounces of olde english in,
we found a baby alligator tied by its neck
to the trunk of a live oak
with pink fishing line.

ankle-deep in black water,
you cut it loose with your car key
in the light of headlights and a half-moon.
the everglades were strange and flat
behind you, and sawgrass swayed
in the slow-motion wind
as the gator swam free,
cut loose. we sat and watched the trail
its tail frantically carved in the water
from the cold hood of your volkswagen.
shaken into sobriety, we were

two ghosts, shocked and disappearing
as daylight seeped slow over the brim
of marshland and into
our open hands.