a village in northern Laos
HER NAME IS NOUKHA
Looking at me from outside into her own home
behind the wooden door her mother brought her through
-the day she was born
—
Wide with anticipation her eyes and the door stand still
Standing still is seconds or minutes in her world
her paperless world of sticks and stones,
mud pies and real pies that she will never get to see
—
She is curious like a child
Like any child her age but she is different
Ordinary in her eyes is washing her clothes at three
cooking at seven and starting a family at seventeen
The boiled scents of nostalgia flood the room
-her mother’s hand feeds her
—
She has learned much from the woman who brought her into this world
not enough from the man who barely lived until she was one
—
Her name is Noukha and she will paint beauty like her blind mother
Kindling kindness and strength of the sword and shield
-she wields on her back that are: duty and responsibility
She will see herself grow taller than the other trees
something her father will never get to see
—
something so beautiful that it stuns time
much like her curiosity dressed in her yellow crocs
just like when she stares at me.