Bitter

I once picked an olive straight from the tree
along the street in Sun Valley where my sister lived.
I didn't know it would be bitter as gall
and I spit it out.

Olives must be cured by water
or brine; then crushed and kneaded
before the oil is pressed out.
Salt, they say, leaches away the bitterness.
How did anyone ever learn this?

Memories croak like crows at dusk;
call to one another. A dozen stories at once,
old wounds, bits of glass working to
the surface of the skin.

Love is written on a sheet of paper,
crumpled, creased and worn,
a tight ball barely legible at times,
worn out.

Though there is nothing to solve,
each moment is an answer.

07/04/2013 06/30/2026