Deportation

We were all once citizens of snow
born beneath the stretched skins—
taut tarps—of our sisters and brothers.
Stateless citizens of desert doorways
so low, our kin had to bow to greet us
as we entered the arc of this world. We each
held a bowl of slate blue sky, and wherever
we carried it welcomed us home. See,
there are no nations, no papers, no passports.
There are no quotients in this genius heritage,
only jungles of bougainvillea that reach
like bodies to the morning sun, iguana tails
smacking still air, only ladders to other levels
of love.