Refugee Reflex

“The inexplicable need and extraordinary ability
to run when the shit hits the fan.”
                                                    —Thi Bui

Acres of black rubble, we shovel and sweat, 
work our bones, our bodies until exhaustion.

In America, they rejoice and we tremble,
fireworks booming and banging over our rooftop.

In this space we once called home, there is pulse
and fear in attempting to flee, die, live, be.

Tonight, bottles & bombs detonate, maroon skies, 
red stars—I did not know blood could sparkle.

Ma shudders, clutching the famous beige tote,
the emergency go-to bag from the ’90s—

social security and identification cards,
her naturalization and my birth certificate,

scraps of paper and digits 
validating our existence, proving we belong.

Without it, will they send us on a boat back to Vietnam?

The term refugee reflex is coined specifically for us—
if we were to tragically burn in fire, in war, 
we’d burn with this bag strapped to our bodies.

I like to believe something bigger than material,
than moon, than man, than God is watching us,
assuaging our dozen anxieties,

rerouting us back to this room, to each other 
if we were to suddenly separate.

Tonight, as fireworks extinguish, I remove
my mother’s boots and socks, assure her
our house will not burn down a second time.

Tonight, the space in this room cracks open
a window wide enough to wrap my arms 
around her waist, halt her trembling.