thirteen hours ahead

Sabrina Siew

there is not much I can say so
I show her the dog. 
[ gau ]
I show her the guinea pig. 
[ lou shi ]
there is no translation 
for the word guinea pig
so my mother beside her,
together sheltered 
from the monsoon
tells her it is just a pretty rat. 
[ hong loi ge lou shi ]
poh poh is confused 
because it looks nothing like a rat,
with its eggplant shaped body
and nutmeg splotch on its face. 
poh poh marvels as it eats mango. 
the guinea pig chomps 
a yellow piece in half. 
I show her the boyfriend.
                       [ nam pang yau ]
the boyfriend tells her she’s pretty. 
[ piao liang ]
really, the only word he knows. 
she blushes and tells my mom 
that she likes white boys, always has. 
                     [ gwailo ]
we talk for seven minutes
because there is not much I can say.
no, there is not much to say.
I tell her I love you. 
[ wo ai ni ]
she tells me I have it wrong.
[ni ai wo]
and I do, that isn’t a lie.
what else is wrong?
I count on my fingers
and then my toes
and then I run out
of digits so I use 
the dog’s and 
the guinea pig’s
and the boyfriend’s. 
I count for so long
that I forget what 
I am counting.

Sabrina Siew is a Midwest-raised, New York City-living creative with a deep appreciation for the ocean, old and new friends, and sparkling fruit drinks. She is currently an MFA in Writing candidate at Columbia University, with her work appearing in publications like Black Warrior Review and New Limestone Review. Born into a noisy Malaysian Chinese American family, she writes poems, prose, and postcards.