by Mary McMillan

I live here. I have
A boat, of sorts, made of
Odd planks, borrowed nails, toxic
Glue. I made a sail from old
Clothes, clothes I wore when I lived

Elsewhere, when I worked
In the city, downtown. Silk,
Pima cotton, microfiber, lace. I sewed
With thread I made from the rough twine

My father handed down, unknowingly.
I unraveled that twine, strand by strand, until
It was simple enough to understand,

And real enough to use. I use
This sail for days when wind
Is, not wild, but forceful, and I need

holes, some give and surrender,
To stay my course. Because

Staying my course is what I do,
When things go right. Staying my course
In wind, in currents, in waves and tides, in the wake

Of boats that are big and have motors. In the still
Of calmness. When my sail is utterly
Useless. When there is

Silence. And birds dive in to feed,
And shadows threaten from deep below. And it grows
Dark. And the wind is withheld. And the air
Grows cold. And my thumbs and knees ache. And I am out
In the open, alone. And I want,

More than anything, to go home.

And above me birds are warm in their feathers.
Below, fish are feeding off each other.
After a while, I lie down. I am
a small thing among stars and creatures,

and we are home.

by Mary McMillan

After High School, I came to the city and found
a job. My boss was a travel agent and I did
some typing and filing and filling out forms.
His accent was thick and I often had to ask
for him to repeat things, and he was kind

and patient in a way I hadn’t experienced before.
I soon learned that all his clients were traveling
to Israel, and he was from Germany. But when he

reached out one day to hand me something,
anything, across the wide desk, maybe a pen, an address,
his big frame blocking sunlight from the window behind;
the long striped cuff of his sleeve, underneath an anonymous
beige polyester jacket, slid upward, fabric stretching,
exposing a pale wrist, tattooed with six numbers.

As I stared, the number was again
hidden. We continued
processing the ticket, discussing the form, as though
nothing had changed, as though this man and I
were not now occupying a place

that had been split into two
separate, distinct worlds. To see one

where he was a number, we would need
to hide this world
where we love our families
and things make sense.