The National Library Of Laos Poem by Bryan Thao Worra

Behind the Lane Xang Hotel she waits,
Her hard gate a shabbily wrapped sinh.

She doesn‟t expect company these days,
But her quiet mouth of paper
Knows the songs of poets, mechanics,
Of Marx and Engels

And dissipated dreams
Over thirty years old.

She smiles when I stop by, but
We both feel awkward;
An aura of mutual failures
Nibbles our simple hearts.

She wants to talk, to shout and strut,
To sing of everything, even the forbidden.
She hates being the reminder
Of what could have been.

She shows me
A cardboard globe
She uses to dream of the world;
Who am I, to reveal: half of those countries
Don‟t exist anymore.

I found a dusty epic of flight
Nestled in one of her shelves,
And told her my family in America
Owned the same book, when I was a child.

I don‟t know if that was a comfort.

While her back was turned, I slipped
A tiny note of hope into a lonesome book of art

For her next visitor, uncertain it will ever be found.

I forget what I wrote precisely,

Walking away on Setthathirat Street
To go and look for my mother.