Bryan Thao Worra Poems

April begins as a joke in a house of children:
A surprise, a word, a laugh if we‟re lucky.
There are still bills and taxes and poems ahead, at least in America.
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A single seed can turn into a forest.
A single heart can transform a nation.
To be brave is jai ka.
To be generous is jai kwan.
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Luck.
The spirits enjoy suggesting not everything is written down
Ahead of time.
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We think them plentiful, like jumping shrimp and tiny crabs:
These mak hung, these chilies, the base for padaek.
The mouth waters with even a mention.
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Mother-in-law threw out the paper plate
I wrote a poem on.
"What was it doing there in the first place? "
Was her first question.
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It is not hip hop,
Despite some hopes.

It is not slam.
It is not even an antipoem.
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The monks gave me a bag of Thai oranges
Before I left for the States.

Next time I come, I‟ll have learned more Lao,
I promise.
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If I am successful,
I will be immortal and misunderstood.

If these emaciated girls on the candlelit street
Of Luang Prabang are successful,
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Beneath, there's life.
Above, there's life.

The fierce sun tucks himself away
After a long day standing
Like a snaggle-toothed Yak
Over lush plains of green and stone,
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A stretch and sprawl of plain and hill
Where stones survive the coldest clouds,

You‟re jars and trails and scars
Rebuilding your shattered face
One hammered bullet at a time.
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