If the wave were a sluiced middle finger. Brine
swills in my throat, tastes something
like cherry Robitussin. The sea plaits my hair
with wreaths of sand. I could be a bride or mermaid or corpse—
this is a cliffhanger. Just know that later they don’t call it
drowning. Once upon a time I was afraid. Of my landlord,
of my priest, of you. Plum-red scales, heaving breast and tilting earths.
Does that make me more fish, less human? If the wave
were a sluiced middle finger.
Emily Yin lives in the small town of Acton, Massachusetts. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in The Riveter Review, Front Porch Review, and GREYstone, among others.