Winter 1993 • Vol. XV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1993 |

Mi Vida

     Chelsea, Massachusetts, 1987 The refugee's run across the desert borderlands carved wings of fright into his forehead, growing more crooked with every eviction notice in this wharf city of the north. He sat in the office for the poor, daughter burrowed asleep on one shoulder, and spoke to the lawyer with a voice trained obedient in the darkness of church confessionals and police barracks, Guatemalan dusk. The lawyer nodded through papers, glancing up only when the girl awoke to spout white vomit on the floor and her father's shirt. "Mi vida:" My life, he said, then said again, as he bundled her to the toilet. This was how the lawyer, who like the fortune-teller had a bookshelf of prophecy but a cabinet empty of cures, found himself kneeling on the floor with a paper towel.

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     Chelsea, Massachusetts, 1987 The refugee's run across the desert borderlands carved wings of fright into his forehead, growing more crooked with every eviction notice in this wharf city of the […]

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