Bryan Thao Worra
Champassak in January
In the old country,
My friend is amazed
At the tiny silver boxes
Arrayed in the market square
Ornate rows, tight-lipped and cryptic.
"They look like coffins for inchworms,"
She jests.
I tell her they're for betel nuts.
"Great for intestinal worms,"
Or so the spitting elders tell us,
Petting their bellies of hollow.
We went to grab some vermicelli,
Passing what looked like
A freshly quartered manta
In a bamboo basket on the way
His pale lips mouthing
Dark pronouncements on us all
His tail flicking on a squalid table,
Waving goodbye at the many tourists
In these markets of carcass
Every bite becomes a postcard
Colorful as saffron monks
Smoking in the street
