The friendly, Chinese curtain-men
walk in a single file
every night in my room.
I see them through closed eyes.
My breath must not touch my skin,
my hand not feel my heart-beat,
in case
I felt
it stopped, and I knew I would
be dead.
The air, I breathe, must be
cool and fresh, not warm
from my blanket.
When I hear the growing sound of
sirens,
I pray they pass our house,
and don't stop to take away my parents.
The sound dies away
and I can sleep knowing
the men in rice hats will be awake, working.