The Olive Life

I’ve been
an olive
on the tree
for so long
I had almost forgotten
the myths about what
it is like to be edible—
to be brined,
saturated,
changed for others
so they want
to consume you—
because to most
you taste delicious
in a savory-salty-
semi-firm-snack
sort of way
and if lucky enough,
washed down
with just
the right sip
of wine.


Of course
there was a lot
of work to get
to this point,
a lot of waiting
too.
Flowering
was hard enough
as it was
considering the oddly
cold weather and
less than satisfactory
soil drainage.


I’m hanging on
with others around me,
spatially not close
enough to touch
the others—
none invading my space.
It’s December,
harvest season,
and I’m not
getting any younger.
I’m just sitting here
afraid to fall
and waste away
into the ground—
afraid to not be
picked while
all the others
are seen for what
they will be
shiny, black and scrumptious—
afraid to be picked
and changed
into something
deemed worth eating.
What to do,
what to do?
Oh my olive life.
Harvesters please wait just a little more.

Three

The lucky number seems to be three. I can’t get past it— my interest waivers and I feel as though someone has taken a figurative cloth and ever so gently placed it firmly over my nose and mouth. It’s then I cannot breathe. It’s then I only think of escape routes. It’s then I think of waking up beaten or lying next to a man as he says “at least take your pants off it’s not like it’s rape—“ Or the time another walks into the joint, sees me at work, and says “you’re good-looking, you’ll do for the day.” It’s then I don’t regret making it to three each time— least I make it out.