The Language Inside (54 page)

everyone claps

Zena growls

and I turn to Samnang

and he’s looking at me funny

your turn
I whisper

then Samnang snaps to

and reads for Leap Sok

a Cambodian village memory

in honor of Chea Pen

first in Khmer

then in English

Samnang then

reads his own poem

which he says is maybe not a poem

since he didn’t use line breaks

    
Coins

    
My grandmother goes to a friend’s house for coining. The copper coin is rubbed over her back. Red lines appear, swell and sting. The rubbing makes friction. The friction makes heat. The heat battles the cold inside. So she says in Khmer to me.

    
Coins drop into a jar. Coins are collected and saved. Coins are counted and donated. Coins become cash. Cash becomes a chance for a kid to learn to dance.

    
In Cambodia no coins were used. I paid with dollars. Sometimes I received Cambodian riel bills as change. But no coins. When I helped my village cousin with his English homework, he practiced his pronunciation. He asked me to say each word, then said it after me. When we got to the word
coin,
he said, “You know—coin”—making a circle with his thumb and finger—“like you can see in the National Museum.” Then I emptied my pockets and gave him all my quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies.

after the readings everyone cheers

and the poet says she is moved

by what we have all accomplished

then we talk about journeys

the different meanings of the word

and we brainstorm going around the circle

words that come to mind

when we hear the word
journey
—

airplane

backpack

journal

Puerto Rico

dust

sneakers

hotel

reunion

luggage

sunset

tears

cockroaches

immigration

money

magic carpet

legs
Zena says

and I say
Tohoku

the poet hands out three poems

that are all about travels and journeys

one called “Enough”

in which the journey

vaguely contemplated

has not yet been taken

another by Maxine Kumin

about running away together to an island

and another by Chinese poet Bei Dao

about standing by a boundary

and wanting to cross to the other side

she says to read these poems

again at home

and for next time

to write a poem or memoir

or something

that has something

to do with travels or journeys

and my mind

is already churning

with ideas

Samnang, Serey and I

leave the Newall Center together

and I sit in back

as usual

we talk about the poems

and the poets

and we’re all jazzed

and I feel like right now

I really, really am lucky

in the backseat I am thinking

I have so much I want to write

and so much more I want to hear—

like, what other poets have to say

and how other poets experiment

and play with words

and now that I know

that everyone

is a poet

or can be a poet

in a way . . . 

but I stop thinking poetry

because in the front seat

Samnang is singing along

loud to a Bruno Mars song

and Serey is joining in

and Samnang knows all the lyrics

and whistles

and moves

and he has to slow the car to drive and sing

and do the hand motions

and I nearly pee in my pants

I’m laughing so hard

and I’m so glad to see Samnang

back to himself

after we drive into the center of Lowell

to drop Serey at her house

Samnang turns the car around

pulls over by a curb and says
lunch?

and I want to say yes

but I say
well . . . 
kind of slow

because YiaYia said to come straight back

to watch Toby while she takes my mother

shopping for shirts that aren’t tight on her chest

then Samnang says

noodle soup?

and I say

in that case, yes

but then I have to get home