A Nail the Evening Hangs On. Monica Sok

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      A Nail the Evening Hangs On

      MONICA SOK

      Note to the Reader

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      Thank you. We hope you enjoy these poems.

      This e-book edition was created through a special grant provided by the Paul G. Allen Family Foundation.

       for Bun Em

      Contents

       Title Page

       Note to Reader

       I

       Ask the Locals

       Americans Dancing in the Heart of Darkness

       The Radio Host Goes into Hiding

       Sestina

       The Weaver

       Recurring Dreams

       Self-Portrait in Siem Reap

       The Death of Pol Pot

       The Radio Brings News

       Windfall

       Song of an Orphaned Soldier Clearing Land Mines

       II

       Tuol Sleng

       III

       In a Room of One Thousand Buddhas

       Cruel Radiance

       ABC for Refugees

       Ode to the Loom

       I Am Rachana

       Cambodia

       The Death of Henry Kissinger

       Self-Portrait as War Museum Captions

       The Woman Who Was Small, Not Because the World Expanded

       Here Is Your Name

       Notes

       About the Author

       Acknowledgements

       Copyright

       Special thanks

      A Nail the Evening Hangs On

      I

      Ask the Locals

      Nobody knows: How those so-called revolutionaries

      who wanted so-called Year Zero so bad,

      turned into mosquitoes. I mean, mosquitoes, right?

      Because not butterflies or moths rolling

      in the mass graves—we all know the moths are children

      who didn’t make it past five. My theory is those creeps

      suck the blood of their victims to forget

      with their bare hands or with other kinds of hands,

      the kinds with teeth. They forgot. Don’t forget: If you

      scratch your arms like that, a huge welt will appear—

      a rash, and those mosquitoes will keep coming.

      You heard it from me. Don’t scratch their real names.

      Toothpaste over that bump won’t soothe you,

      not this one. I’ll tell you something personal: Every time

      I hear their real names, I itch my skin. I itch my own name

      too. Mosquitoes. Call them mosquitoes. This kind keeps going

      like that mosquito’s straw on your calf keeps sucking.

      This is when I tell you: Don’t bend.

      Slap.

      Americans Dancing in the Heart of Darkness

      It’s the Water Festival, the city is a crowd. My skin full of sun

      like so many country people who have come to Phnom Penh.

      The Americans hate me and I hate them,

      but they’re the only students with me and maybe I’m American too.

      When I return to my windowless room at the Golden Gate Hotel,

      I order fresh young coconut, a club sandwich, and French fries.

      A woman with a bruised face and a silver tray walks up seven floors,