Olive Tree
There wasn’t any way I could have boiled
and drunk yesterday’s cup of espresso or
moved the olive tree past the ridge or make
the sky forever purple, or perch with the
sparrows and blue jays on an oak tree branch.
There wasn’t any way I could have
made the Pontiac go any faster or upside
down or sideways while I sped down the
highway trying to escape my father. There
were wars all over the world then, while I
tried to look as beautiful as possible for a date
and walked down on the beach smelling the
sand and feeling the soft spray of foam from
an old fishing boat going by.
There wasn’t any way I could cut my
tongue out or replace it with a hand full of
lilies or olive leaves. I couldn't afford to listen
to my friends anymore, as I hid in Long Beach,
California and stay there at the thought of being
alive among the oranges and lemons and the
sparrows with their infinitesimal red and brown
stripped lives and an occasional hummingbird.
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