Bryan Thao Worra
Bryan Thao Worra Poems
|41.||What Tomorrow Takes Away||11/14/2017|
|42.||Swallowing The Moon||11/14/2017|
|43.||Moon Crossing Bone||7/29/2013|
|45.||Surprises In America||7/13/2012|
|46.||Golden Triangle, Holy Mountain||7/13/2012|
|49.||New Myths Of A Northern Land||7/13/2012|
|50.||Our Dinner With Cluster Bombs||7/13/2012|
|52.||E Pluribus Unum||7/13/2012|
|54.||A Crime In Xieng Khouang||7/29/2013|
Comments about Bryan Thao Worra
A Crime In Xieng Khouang
Someone stole my boots from
A Phonsavan porch
Around dinner time
In the dark.
I suspect it was my tour guide-
The one who trained to be a diplomat,
Whose future drained away
With the American departure.
When I first bought them,
The box proclaimed they were
“Hard To Kill”
And by extension, I assume,
So was I, though there were no
written words to that effect.
Forty dollars is a good price
But it‟s nearly a year‟s pay
In these parts.
I should have known
New American boots
In an Asian size
Don‟t come by often ...
Tom Mak Hung
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.
Every heart of Laos knows it well.
Cross oceans and mountains, battlefield and basement,
Oz or Kyrgyzstan, Modesto or Nashville, Phoenix or Pakse.
Meet anyone who can say sabaidee or a word of passa lao.