The Olive.

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Begonias.

Geraniums.

Honeysuckle.

Gardenia.

and grandmother’s early lilac blooms.

and spears of green again 

already quickening in the new blue sun.


It was sometime later you offered me the olive 

and I took it from your fork 

with my mouth. 

You refilled my water glass 

and inquired about the bright winter sun in my eyes.


The olive is firm,  

infused with horseradish, tomato juice, salt and pepper. 

The soup is lentil-coconut shared and you told me 

you met him on an elevator, 

eyes met and that night you made love. 

I buttered the thick, crusty, brown bread.


The miscarriage was terrible. 

I said you’d make a great mother 

and you agreed.


You want to go to Africa.


You love sex.

You want sex.

So do I.

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