Refugee
poetry
Refugee
- Like a berry hanging from a vine
- that’s the first sign, according to
- the experts. But you didn’t know it
- then: back in Vietnam fruit grew
- on trees and bushes. It didn’t hide
- and rupture like cherries too ripe
- inside your wife’s head.
- Even war has its starts, its survivors.
- All you got was a thud and a body
- choking on itself. That was when
- sister and I became refugees, too.
- One day we told you we saw her,
- going elsewhere. At last, when you
- looked, you found her picking fruit
- in familiar fields, welcoming you home.
