The Unprepared

In the Old Country
We collected weapons
Armories of cleaning supplies, home supplies
Things built up (which we might need)
And now I stand, an exile, an expatriate
In front of spotty chrome and clogged drain
A coffee stained tee shirt for a flag
My mother tongue the whine
Of an upright vacuum
These new immigrants, they will say,
Not that they take our jobs
(We work in libraries and restaurants
We sell video games and stereos)
They will say we have waxy ears
And foggy bathroom mirrors
Like Dracula we take our dirt
With us- our home soil
And the national stereotype: wrinkled
Shirt, unconditioned hair
Three layers of nail polish, each barely chipped
Before the next application
We shall be- not dirty exactly-
We shall be without our weapons
No Tupperware, No Mr. Clean, No Draino
We stand before a mirror, sharing a single
Black comb; we, the young refugees