PERFUME OF REMOVAL
We stroll through the Brooklyn Botanical
on an incandescent Saturday afternoon,
a promenade that shuffles us past petunias
and blushing magnolias.
The greenhouse and conservatories boast
of flowering cherries in peak bloom,
and water lilies that buoy golden
and rosy beans in verdant palms.
Our mother teeters at the hip,
inhales the giggle of honeysuckle
vines tickling her toes.
My little brother,
even with rows of ghost lilies
that probe his elbows,
remains unamused.
Yet, the gardenias,
the gardenias we greet
with our noses,
each of us magnetized
by the waxy perfume
of white coconut meat and peaches.
Thirteen blocks over, a mailman -- ignorant
and complicit -- scatters weeds
that will sprout serial displacement
across the city and in our living room:
(Full name of alien) who entered the United States
at (Place of entry) on (Date of entry) is subject
to removal/deportation from the United States,
and pursuant to provisions
of the Immigration and Nationality Act.
Did we think the fragrance of gardenia
would distract US from uprooting
our kaleidoscopic garden?
Deracination smells
like rancid oranges and close margins
at the electoral college.
Little brother, if they order you,
to go back where you came from,
wherever “where” is,
remember you have the stamp
of gardenia smeared
on the insides of your wrist,
like a visa that permeates
all borders.
Little brother, we will plant gardenias
in our own garden bed.
They will bow at the stem—
they will wait for you.
They will wait right here
in the place where
you will come home.
