VOLUME 2 / ARTICLE 08 ︎
WHEN I WAS BORN
Written by Sennah Yee
Illustrations by Alice Zhang
November 2020
Illustrations by Alice Zhang
November 2020
There’s the same flaming pink sexy sunset over and over on my feed, with varying angles and filters and captions. I run outside barefoot to see for myself but it looks different. Less pink. I go back in and wash my feet and spread cream on my soles and elbows and knees and neck. In bed, I double-tap everyone’s sunsets and lurk your crush. I accidentally double-tap their picture of you, backlit, beaming.
The last time I saw you in person, we went out dancing and when you thrashed your hair, sometimes it stuck to my dewy chest, other times my dry open mouth. We waited for our Uber and for your mom to text your birth time. The Uber got lost and your mom asked when you would visit next. Isn’t that annoying, you say. Yeah, I say. No, no one can say my mom’s annoying except me, you say. Oh, yeah, I say.
I had visited my mom earlier that week and she gave me leftover Costco chicken pot pie in a plastic black takeout container with a clear lid. There was so much of it that you and I ate it over the course of the whole week. Afterwards I washed the takeout container and stacked it under my sink, along with all the other takeout containers that I save for when my mom asks me to return all her takeout containers to give me more leftovers in takeout containers.
Neither of our moms know about either of us. I think they’d hate us and love each other. Maybe they’d get their haircuts at the same place my family goes to near Kensington Market, and they’d gossip about our bad jobs and bedtimes. Then they’d shop for groceries and my mom would tell your mom how growing green onions is really easy, you just slice off their bulbs and keep their roots submerged.
The last time I saw you in person, we went out dancing and when you thrashed your hair, sometimes it stuck to my dewy chest, other times my dry open mouth. We waited for our Uber and for your mom to text your birth time. The Uber got lost and your mom asked when you would visit next. Isn’t that annoying, you say. Yeah, I say. No, no one can say my mom’s annoying except me, you say. Oh, yeah, I say.
I had visited my mom earlier that week and she gave me leftover Costco chicken pot pie in a plastic black takeout container with a clear lid. There was so much of it that you and I ate it over the course of the whole week. Afterwards I washed the takeout container and stacked it under my sink, along with all the other takeout containers that I save for when my mom asks me to return all her takeout containers to give me more leftovers in takeout containers.
Neither of our moms know about either of us. I think they’d hate us and love each other. Maybe they’d get their haircuts at the same place my family goes to near Kensington Market, and they’d gossip about our bad jobs and bedtimes. Then they’d shop for groceries and my mom would tell your mom how growing green onions is really easy, you just slice off their bulbs and keep their roots submerged.
On the Uber ride home, your knee bopped mine anytime we turned right. When I lurk your crush I see they’re learning how to tattoo in quarantine - monstera leaves, greyhounds in sweaters, skinny stars, you know. I know you want more tattoos and I know who you want them from and I know you want them on your knees. I left the car first, but still felt you there on my own. I wiped off my glasses and your lipstick and crawled into bed and watched the little car with you in it keep going on the app, until you got home and sent me the song we were wondering about earlier.
I listen to the song and it sounds different. Less divine. I spread cream on my neck and see your fingers and palms and wrists and knuckles which remind me of your knees. And in my dreams you make me soft and strong and soft and strong and -
Half a year into quarantine, my hair and nails and green onions are growing and growing and splitting, and you text me for the first time since that night we went out:
7:22pm
I was born when the sun set
I wish my mom had taken a pic for me
but she was probably too tired because of me
I listen to the song and it sounds different. Less divine. I spread cream on my neck and see your fingers and palms and wrists and knuckles which remind me of your knees. And in my dreams you make me soft and strong and soft and strong and -
Half a year into quarantine, my hair and nails and green onions are growing and growing and splitting, and you text me for the first time since that night we went out:
7:22pm
I was born when the sun set
I wish my mom had taken a pic for me
but she was probably too tired because of me
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sennah is from Toronto, where she writes poetry, prose, and film criticism. She is the author of the poetry collection How Do I Look? (Metatron Press, 2017) and the children’s book My Day with Gong Gong (Annick Press, 2020). She is a poetry editor at Peach Mag. Find her at www.sennahyee.com
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Alice Zhang is an artist and illustrator based in Montreal. She enjoy colors, things that don’t go together, condiments & new challenges http://alicezhang.ca/
Sennah is from Toronto, where she writes poetry, prose, and film criticism. She is the author of the poetry collection How Do I Look? (Metatron Press, 2017) and the children’s book My Day with Gong Gong (Annick Press, 2020). She is a poetry editor at Peach Mag. Find her at www.sennahyee.com
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Alice Zhang is an artist and illustrator based in Montreal. She enjoy colors, things that don’t go together, condiments & new challenges http://alicezhang.ca/
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