Boun Poem by Bryan Thao Worra

By estimation, walking backwards
Nine deuan from my birthday in Vientiane

It was April, Meh-saa,
A few weeks prior to Pi Mai Lao
When I was conceived
In a private corner of my country.

Undoubtedly, it was hot.

Our loud neighbors, all grimace and grime and sweat
Could barely wait for the full moon to make her turn,
A reason to loosen,
To sing and lamvong drunkenly,
Dousing each other for
Fortune in the streets.

There was still cleaning to be done.

By 1972, Americans introduced “April Fools”
To our region despite the warfare dragging on.

Near the time I was born,
Buddhist tales of Prince Vessantara
Were told for the Boun Pha Weht.

Across the savaged countryside
Hallowed wats filled with men of piety
Taking vows as monks
Collecting robed merit for their family.

Heavy in my mother‟s belly,
I entered the world
On Wan Phi Mai Sakon

Leaving for America
Before I heard the July sermons
For Asanha Puja.

Thirty years later in California
I ask Mae
If I am anywhere close to the truth.
I am uncertain she sees value in speculation.

“What do holidays have anything to do
With who you are? ” she asks, laughing heartily
At the only facts I had to work with
To find her.