Phonsavan

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.

The true heart of Laos beats here
Desperate as a bush-meat market
Of endangered beasts,
Famished for change,
Weaving adversity into opportunity.

You're a place where
The long-haired goddess of Hope
Is always itching to leave, but she's
A good daughter who always finds
One more chore she's needed for,
Who never quite makes it out the door.

The Maidens of Sivilay

Here then, your mouth a chamber
Of earth, of brass, of lead and smoke.
Your hair is made of silenced poets!

Those lips of adamant tenderness
Unrelenting