The broken silver lines snap and shine
on the water as the boat churns its way north.
We stand, wrapped in rain jackets
at bow’s edge, and watch the sun—
slippery and fast. It sheds its scales
in a scattered streak on the dark arctic water.
We shiver with our own shedding—
having left home cold, uncovered by blessing.
We return below the deck with burning
ears and numb noses. You cry softly now,
your face to the wall, clutching your knees.
I put my hand on your hand.
My mind is filled with the feeling
of our breaths streaming from our faces,
and our emptied lungs,
gasping in the damp wind.
Micah Yee is a trans and queer writer of color who has served as editor in chief for the West Wind at Azusa Pacific University and is currently writing from the Pacific Northwest. Publication credits include Crux, Two Words For, The Milo Review, Polaris, Compass, and Words Dance, with work forthcoming in Tule Review.