OUT OF WATER

                    by Jasmine Cui

A man is not a fish, but we fled
in a boat better suited for fishing.

Its hull reeked of salt
rot and desperation. There,

I learned to mistake nausea
for excitement. My mother is not

a fish, but the immigration officer
looks at her as if she were a trout—     

weak and oafish. His lips are a study
in slow motion, words crawling

forth like an infant. He is trying
to speak fish. My father is not a fish,

but his father was a carpenter. I watch
him slit soapstone and the skin on his neck

as he learns to breathe foreign
air through the gaps in his throat.

I am not a fish, but on land I forget
how to breathe when I see police officers.

They wear rain slickers during the wet season
and look like fishermen. A man is not a fish,

but the harbor is our mecca
where fishmongers sell skate and salmon

for pennies and white men expose
their greedy bellies asking for more. 

​

Jasmine Cui is 17 years old and is majoring in Political Science, Economics, and Violin Performance at SUNY Geneseo. She aspires to be like her parents who are first-generation Americans that fought an extraordinary battle for their place in this country. This is her first time being published.