Okwana in Four Parts

1.

SILVER CHOPSTICKS

we get them every morning in the long breakfast lines. my life is messy with you in it: grasping at gummy duck liver with two sticks. the cafeteria women don’t smile and wash dishes on the floor, crouched near the drain.

2.

DRAGONFLY

dragonflies are the size of my hand in wingspan. the blankets alongside the road are covered with chili peppers. if blood-sun were a color. the air is so hot it takes up space, cancels out other noise. my throat gets dry as a road, the plastered walls shape into an alley. i grow thirsty looking at the payphones, thinking of your voice.

3.

MONSOON

the field is so torrid rain could set it on fire. showers come plunging down from farm to city in a wide curtain, lighter fluid burning the sky why didn’t you come with me to see this

4.

OKWANA

a monsoonal siesta: taxi’s line up in the rain and slur past women covering their faces. beneath the tea-house awning rice workers sit gracefully and fan hours of salt off their skin.

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A native Oregonian, Lori Huskey now lives in Seattle where she works as an arts administrator. She has a BA from San Francisco State University and is finishing her master’s at Portland State University.