The Olive Tree

Her skin is on the olive tree
grazed and taken she sits
young thighs pressed and marked by blood left there
and still she pretends to play
a pink note peeling
it was only yesterday
fresh off the press
little peach
Time has built an ark to house the template
and fingers      print
and ache
though bones are cold
she possesses the green of olive leaves
here she hides
a resentful breeze
her eyes are topaz wishes
His aged stubble and rough bark in exchange for warm yeast and mothers arms
Hanging upside down and draining free
I Hear it NOW
the babies cry
from deep inside the olive tree

31 thoughts on “The Olive Tree”

  1. Hi there,
    Thanks for following my blog! Glad I could pop over in time for this poem. There’s some really nice sound work going on here.
    “and still she pretends to play
    a pink note peeling
    it was only yesterday
    fresh off the press
    little peach”
    Mmm, compelling!
    I’ve started a new section on my blog for writing prompts. Maybe they will be useful to you.
    Best,
    D

    Like

    1. thankyou, she was just a baby when married off to a man three times her age……and i do believe the energy of the culture was preserved in our dna and now generations later i am still clearing those anti female power vibes from my being!

      Like

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