The olives are black and ripe.
Black beads scrutinise me, smiling
With a bitter aftertaste that I know I won’t like,
But my dad loves.
Four olives, then three, then two,
And little fingers reach out for the plucked fruit.
Yellowy syrup soaks into fluffy clouds of ciabatta
Like the warmth of the sun seeping into tiny cracks in the road;
I remember the story of Athena’s olive tree and
I think I should call her Minerva because I’m in Italy.
Two identities for the same person.
I find that strange.
Picking the thinly sliced fruit from my food,
I grimace at the pattern of black spots on my plate.
The two colours mix in my vision and I know
It is ugly.
The sea glimmers just beyond my reach and the
Filtered beams of sunlight make me yellow.
**** sharp flavours pinch my tongue.
Thin arms suffocated by pustules of inky blackness cover my vision;
My father stands beside me, taking photos,
Although I’m not sure what he’s commemorating.
I see a group of Korean tourists.
They don’t recognise me.
I spit out the sour bead.
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 4:53 AM UTC
The olives are black and ripe.
Black beads scrutinise me, smiling
With a bitter aftertaste that I know I won’t like,
But my dad loves.
Four olives, then three, then two,
And little fingers reach out for the plucked fruit.
Yellowy syrup soaks into fluffy clouds of ciabatta
Like the warmth of the sun seeping into tiny cracks in the road;
I remember the story of Athena’s olive tree and
I think I should call her Minerva because I’m in Italy.
Two identities for the same person.
I find that strange.
Picking the thinly sliced fruit from my food,
I grimace at the pattern of black spots on my plate.
The two colours mix in my vision and I know
It is ugly.
The sea glimmers just beyond my reach and the
Filtered beams of sunlight make me yellow.
**** sharp flavours pinch my tongue.
Thin arms suffocated by pustules of inky blackness cover my vision;
My father stands beside me, taking photos,
Although I’m not sure what he’s commemorating.
I see a group of Korean tourists.
They don’t recognise me.
I spit out the sour bead.
Request permission to use this poem