Margin: Exploring Modern Magical Realism


The night I walk into town
to meet my brother
I'm tripped up
by a car whose wheels rip
through a newspaper
along the white line
of the road.
The black bold
type is bleeding.
I scream
but the bleeding doesn't stop.
At the corner a man who hasn't seen
water, food, gloved fingers
this cold, snow-blowing January
asks how many faces do I see
holding his chin up.
Twenty-five, I say
twenty-five thousand.

n a o m i   a y a l a
w a s h i n g t o n ,   d. c.

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