Dante in the Sunshine State

The path is littered with lightning-charred stumps
leading away
from the jaws of the beasts. They are drawn to my scent
of sweat and guilt,
my pores throwing up a fear of mangrove islands.
If I had left these woods,
I would have never witnessed the black-bellied plover shaking
off the dew,
baptizing dead leaves; the safety of water a compass against drought.


“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.” The plover takes off.
I’m left in the middle
of man-made levees feeding the wrong side
of the panhandle.
The beasts are gone; nothing is left alive.
Brown sawgrass falls
limp on all sides; to the plover all this might spread out like a map


of Africa. Beatrice, I name the bird Beatrice, with her onyx belly
and fickle wings flying
toward the Florida sunrise made famous by postcards:
“Wish you were here.”
“Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”