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Sennah Yee is from Toronto. These pieces are from her first full-length book HOW DO I LOOK?  forthcoming from Metatron in October 2017. Find her at

3 poems by Sennah Yee


My mom is named after Rita Hayworth but has seen none of her films. I am named after a Formula 1 racecar driver who died in a crash during a race just two years after I was born, and just last year I let my driver’s license expire without ever getting behind the wheel. I make up for all this by winning Mario Kart, watching movies with cars and babes, and having you drive me around in your boss’s convertible that he lends you when he vacations in Lyon. Paused at a red light with you, a guy crossing the street tells me to smile. You roll the roof back up and I feel everyone’s lingering gaze. There is that satisfying mix of envy and respect and disgust, and I finally understood the appeal of stupid things like unscathed leather and purring engines and road head. Next week I retake the driver’s test and when I get my photo I.D. taken, the guy at the booth tells me to stop smiling. I have to.


Women are mothers or wives. Women like fashion or camping. Women wear dresses or jeans. Women are blonde or brunette. Women die or live to be punished.



My skin is lighter and my eyes are wider and my nose is narrower and I secretly relish this for a maximum of 10 seconds.

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