When they forget our stories I pray you remember
while eating store-bought canned tuna ice fishing
on the frozen lake. You are mini Yuzuru, future
Olympic winner fan-favorite figure skater
and you point to your Mukluk boots pretending
they had blades: aata, father,
today I will jump beyond
your height. The wind applauds
cheers thrill your red ears as my arms swing
a chisel across the imaginary ice rink
the rhythm of soreness
carving black holes in the knee-deep snow.
Fingers flared by frostbite I watch the ground break
into salmon squirming out of the water,
tails flapping to escape the air. Dehydration
builds in my throat. You ask about the sand’s texture—
if it is similar to snow and the morphology of
palm trees not knowing
the danger of strangeness. In this homeland
the caribou disappear as fish swim up North,
rivers emptied by a heatwave.
These years, the climate splits winter
into a season. On the horizon lights
in the oil factory. They blind the stars
as I tell you about the aurora borealis its colors carrying
the spirits of our ancestors through the trail of smoke.
The ocean rises and crashes against my breath.
My hope burns. Today, what matters is
how we fit the shapeless into space: your footsteps
in the direction of the mountains, the two of us
breathing the morning pink
shadows gliding through the evergreen trees.
Inside a frozen bubble your reflection.
The remaining places we feel whole
where we preserve a family through nature.
Qanuk. A snowflake, music from the sky. How
each one hits your tongue, dissolving itself into a droplet.
I can see the globe. For now, only icebergs
separate our memories. Beneath glacier cracks
your stomach rumbles hollow.
Translations in Yupik
Ataa: Father
Qanuk: Snowflake
—
Chelsea Zhu is a teen writer and environmental advocate from Maryland. Chelsea loves summer, stargazing, and skiing.
