a literary magazine.
Four Poems...
HOME VIDEOS
I can only remember Wall Street, CT
through home videos and memories
made from stories my imagination
illustrated into existence.
There are no stocks, and no businesses,
just worn down multiple family homes.
The home videos are taken from a camcorder
held by my mother all taken in the same room;
I can only recall three:
My brother is playing Donkey Kong Country
and I’m holding a controller. I’m too young
to understand it isn’t plugged in. Every time
Donkey Kong jumps on a crocodile, I jump too in celebration.
My mother is reciting Khmer body part words to me
and expects me to point to each one.
The camcorder snickers when she says lawlaw,
my head and hands go to my crotch.
My brother and I are running in circles,
dancing to a Mozart song and laughing
as our faces pass the camera.
SKELETONS
after “Skeletons” by Real Friends
I can’t go to the Price Rite in Cromwell anymore.
The grocery store’s dim sign
competes with the neon Budweiser lights
next door that reflects invitingly
against the Honda Civics on display
across from pumpkins on sale.
Way back then there were monsters in my closet,
and now there’s just skeletons hiding in there.
The blue aprons smell of raw chicken juice
splits cashier from human. My habit of biting
nails relapsed at the salmonella escape.
If only customers knew the difference
between insult and compliment,
just like I was trained to understand
cilantro from parsley.
Pay attention to the leaves.
Way back then there were monsters in my closet,
and now there’s just skeletons hiding in there.
Some days the peaches are really ripe,
the strawberries blush all the way around,
and the bananas only reveal a gradient of green—
Other days my complexion is perfect and I’m asked
if I’m aware of it. I’m told that I must be Moroccan,
that I speak Spanish, that I’m not qualified to count change.
Way back then there were monsters in my closet,
and now there’s just skeletons hiding in there.
TOO BIG TO FILL
I walked along rainbow chalk graffiti
where Al’s footprint stuck in concrete.
“Allll right, high five!”
I beamed toward Al’s
wrinkly palms and
met his hands with mine.
I remembered his high fives,
like a stamp of a grandfather’s approval.
He sat on his beige porch
at noon as the undercover
neighborhood watch.
His lawn always displayed
a perfect checkerboard.
Walking, welcoming conversation
where waving hands sought fulfillment.
One foot slowly passed another
when the weather granted
a late pass to class.
Coach viewed walking as medicine.
I always thought it led to giving up.
I remembered Al walking
to keep his heart healthy
even though his mind began
to forget his destination.
It’s called Alzheimer’s—
I didn’t know what that meant.
The neighborhood watched
for Al as his feet diverted
from sidewalk, to his kept lawn.
Years later, I walk along bare concrete
where rain fills in Al’s footprint
like a puddle.
CLAIRVOYANT
after “Clairvoyant” by The Story So Far
I miss the confidence of my high school shoes and
the days I wore shorts to show off neon colored socks.
Those days I sweated from losing my voice in class.
Now as an adult, I break a sweat walking into class
and jeans cover my legs. The beads grow
as I think about speaking. I wish I knew why
Don’t paint me black when I used to be golden
and what is anxiety. Thinking is good for us
and the saying goes too much of a good thing is bad
and think before you speak
and thinking too hard makes you change your answer
and when I don’t think, I’m an asshole
and when I do think, I lose points for not sharing
and we tell students they shouldn’t say “I think”.
I think I believe we all don’t know.
Don’t paint me black when I used to be golden
Myers Briggs tells me I’m borderline extroverted.
My friends aren’t surprised but the girls I date don’t believe.
My student evaluations tell me I’m nervous at times,
and my graduate class grades suffer from low participation.
Anxiety is hearing what people think and thinking about what they want to hear,
or maybe it’s not knowing what it is.
I’m learning to wipe the sweat away faster,
I started wearing colorful long socks under my jeans.
Don’t paint me black when I used to be golden
Bio: Nick Chhoeun is a graduate from American University’s MFA program. His work explores culture, identity, and love through an Asian American millennial perspective. As a teacher, he shares his passion of writing to students at universities in Connecticut.