olive poem

echo
needs an obstruction a
tangible in its path to
qualify 

monster
takes the shape of a shade tree
standing still as a century dropping
precious olives into
the hands of women
old women wooden handed
earth hands bent backs black
widow veiled their
mouths tasting of
communion tasting of
their salty men spit
out the stones that
fill the graves of their children 

echo
is a reckless
flyer touching down it
taxis through the valleys colliding
with obstacles dead
ends women of
salt & wood & earth
pillars
their flesh disqualified by
monster standing still as a century
dropping myth
like precious olives

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