Not A Myth

today there was sun. today, a boy. his skinny fingers— dunked, one by one, like bread loaves into the snow. today there was a love I had for popcorn, and legs. my mother’s calming throat. lozenge pills, fatty and strong. today somebody said die to somebody else and they did. today I bathed. today somebody said sharp and arcs through the wind, that is a fish-bone; a woman said, that is me, too. today, my body tightened at the scalp and hair fell out of its black peninsula. today I swept the floor. today, temperature. swivel. brain. man in the public library with a kid to handle, another warm mouth. man exiting slow, like a lush rain. today I parked the car and steered the wheel all by myself, today I was proud. today, brain. well-oiled machine that speaks and rests. today she said, don’t let nobody call me no names and nobody did.


to live, to redden:

to praise small molars & feet.


today we fed.



Carlina Duan hails from Michigan, and currently lives in Malaysia. She has work published in Berkeley Poetry Review, Bodega, The Margins, and elsewhere. Her debut poetry collection, I Wore My Blackest Hair, is forthcoming from Little A in 2017.