Carlina Duan
Morning
after Jericho Brown
I rise into it. sheets of rain cast
softly into the streets below.
sister in the other room, who sleeps below
fluorescent light, ceiling made of sheetrock,
fan that orbits her body with cool air. Rockabye
Baby, name of a rose bush, name of a lullaby
we never heard as girls. as girls, our lullaby
in the soft thump of our mother’s hands
over our backs, pat, pat, pat, rhythmic, one hand
on sister, one hand on me. soft with certainty.
this morning, do I feel the need to return? am I certain
of the world outside myself? (the low rise of flowers
meeting mud each spring, the certainty of flour
pushing beneath my hands as I build
bread from paper bags—) our breath builds
into our bodies— shuì ya, shuì ya, the spells we cast.
Carlina Duan is a writer-educator from Michigan, and the author of the poetry collections I Wore My Blackest Hair (Little A, 2017) and Alien Miss (University of Wisconsin Press, 2021). Her poems have appeared in POETRY Magazine, Narrative Magazine, Poets.org, and other publications. She has an M.F.A. from Vanderbilt University, and is currently a Ph.D. Candidate in the Joint Program in English and Education at the University of Michigan. Among many things, she loves river walks, snail mail, and being a sister.
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