On Magical Realism

—Ontario, CA. 1981

Stained with rosaries
and skeletons, some
virgin or another praying
on his shoulder, Tiny
shuffles toward and
leans heavy, as if trying,
into the first perfect hook
my father will land that summer,
and miles north, Tiny’s mother
clutches her chest, hearing
just then, on a dusty mantle
in an empty room, framed
glass crack and crack again
just along the left jawline
of a favorite baby boy
who will grow into a man
who calls a man Nigger,
in a room full of niggers,
and the nigger with the hook—
my father—asks What’s my name,
What’s my name, What’s
my motherfucking name?
as the photo frame
shatters damn near to dust,
Tiny’s mother buckles
and she cries, God…