Margin: Exploring Modern Magical Realism

TWO POEMS
j i m   b e r t o l i n o   &   a n i t a   k.   b o y l e
b e l l i n g h a m ,   w a s h i n g t o n

MONDAY NIGHT POETRY READING

While the poets bleed,
the M.C. slumps in the corner.
She's had a bad week:
out of cat-litter, a
new wrinkle in her
neck wattles, and no
word from Publishers
Clearing House.

The microphone lies
puking on the pulpit.
A lady in the balcony threatens
to cut the throat of the
little boy laughing behind
her. And then she does.

Opens him like
a pop-tart, and the
crowd devours him.
The poet sticks his fingers in
his ears, and yells, "I
can't see! I can't see."

The pastor rises to his
diminutive stature
and says, "If dying
was an Art, I'd give
that shabby tyke a
C-." Then he dabs at
the corners of his mouth
with his snow-white handkerchief.

It is going to be a bad month.

                                

LIKE THE SHINING

carapace of a beetle
endowed with color,

his aura was
resplendent, yet
smoothly armored.

There was no white
horse, nor even a silvery
moth floating closer
to the moon. No,

only a trough with
water rushing, only
the sounds of water rushing
when he opened his
mouth to speak.

Like a blade whose
edge chooses
the cut, like a stalk
of chard, there was

direction to this
singular man.

He walked crosswise
to the meridian,
and chose to engage in
the Rorschach blot
test in order to
better know the obsessions
visited on him.

Running his fingers
through the ink,
he left footprints
everywhere, but

the hand of creation
was evident and brought
comprehension.

bar graphic

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