𝙾 𝙲 𝙲 𝚄 𝙻 𝚄 𝙼

In the evening I wait for the ferry
that skids along glass: yangtze, yellow.
Water with no cork, opened. Someone
talks about walking in—like Jesus,
says he’ll part the red sea. Winks.

My hands, slicked with river. Slick
against the window: frame ajar, tipping
the glow of an eggshell lid. I pop it open,
crack the yolk of moonlight. The tea soaking,
dimmed into night, into bodies brushing

into light. Hymn beneath my tongue
like a plea—your name: hyun, hyun
humming in my mouth. We’re on the last
boat to Seoul, the captain says, water running
over rain. I lean forward and watch land draw

back, shapes fading. Ahead, the window
fogs with breath. With water. I think I see
my mother inside, shoulders open, hands star
-fished against glass. The rain warps them,
so that only their lines, rims, like oil

paints, remain. My bare feet on coughs
of dew: voyage down the sea—like Jesus,
walking on water.

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Isabelle Wei is a Korean-Chinese writer, journalist, and poet. She is the recipient of the 2023 Yamabuki Prize and has been recognized by the Poetry Society of the UK, the Royal Commonwealth Society, and the Wilbur and Niso Smith Foundation. Her work can be found in Saint Mary’s College Museum of Art, Tabula Rasa Review, Writers in Kyoto, and Live Canon, among others. As the Editor-in-Chief of Reverie, she enjoys browsing through stories that reflect her love for the natural world. She has been nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.