Verlan

A few years ago, I went to Nepal,
'bout which I made sure to read nothing at all.
Inquisitiveness in reverse is rad:
the trip becomes yours and not one others had.

But eleven months into being 'home',
I wish I had left fewer things so unknown.
Verlan is French slang that flips words around;
I, too, am reversed in my days in this town.

Staff at Monroe Chicken shout, "You're welcome!"
as I walk through the door, confused, looking dumb.
I haven't said "Thank you." Where was my cue?
Is all of Monrovia just messing with you?

Boatman to island to see chimpanzees
says, "I know deh river, but it not know me..."
implying one drowns or loses one's hands
in rivers that plot against innocent man.

Few people signal, wear helmets, pay tax:
most everything binding society's lax
and orderly people like me are cursed
when laws are made last, and peace is made first.

But how can I lecture when I, at noon,
learned the beach I look onto from every room
was where thirteen officials were tied, shot.
A knower of Liberia's history, I'm not.

I think that my mom, for better or worse,
buried the news clippings deep in her purse;
all of the facts I should already know
were glossed over, sugared, dulling the blow.

So now I'm devouring a book that explains
the stories of places I've been and their names,
their truths and their myths, their villains and ghost --
I'll leave knowing more than the quirks of this coast.