Carlina Duan
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When I Boiled the Corn
i thought first
about minnows
& my father's brow
lifting each time he
drew flights of fish
on blank paper -- fins
glinting like proper
coins. he would draw
them in his highest
anger, mandarin &
english drilling
currents thru his
mouth:
fuck / man
warrior / pig
words he
couldn't catch
with a rod-- or
his hands.
the corn came in
husks which i
tore off.
my father's
tongue was not
torn, but rather,
steamed: english
vowels & consonants
hitting hot air, pink
roof of the mouth,
hissed & flung out
at the gas station,
at the university
lab. this is what
we're going to do
today do you un-
derstand? english
bolted itself to my
throat and my father
did not move, watched
me eat yogurt & ride
a scooter til the english
battery powered my
jaw, my hands, my
father drew fish
and did not flick
the switch, alphabet
chafed my thighs
& moved me, up
& down a street
where i owned
syllables untouched
by my father:
gold / good / god
home / help / him / amen
when i first called
my father an ass-
hole in english he
did not stand up
but shook in his
chair & that is when
i knew the knife
had cinched a fish-
eye, its round & simple
jelly, lifted towards
the ceiling, no hope
or muscle left,
no nothing at all.
everywhere
around me:
kernels of
corn so hot
to swallow.
before i reach the lid
there is the steam
and a crystallized
sheet of brown water
at the bottom of
the pan, yellow ears
wet & pronounced. i
think of how the chinese
character for loss
is one i must memorize
from the internet, so
come dinnertime i say
nothing, press my fingers
into the pan & this
is how i burned
the corn. how
i fed my father.
First published in AAWW's The Margins.
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Carlina Duan hails from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her poems have been anthologized and published in Uncommon Core, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, The Margins, and Berkeley Poetry Review, among others. Her first full-length poetry collection, “I Wore My Blackest Hair,” is forthcoming from Little A in 2017.