Watching Bridget Jones in Vietnamese

The interpreter played every part
(which complicated the fight scene).
Their mouths made different shapes
to the words she gave them.

They wanted to say something else,
without her velveteen voice soothing
their insults as if they were in praise;
not protest. We all turned away from it

in the dark and stood on the corner:
where I had seen the frowning artist
replicating the posters, and two men
kick out at each others shins.

When I was in Paris I watched another film
in a language I didn’t know well enough.
This time they shouted back at the screen,
whistled and clapped at the ending.