Olive Leaves ---------------------- Jada B

Olive Leaves

I am on a diet of matchsticks and olive leaves, plus the occasional mulberry. Mulberries with rich blue/red/purple juices that can't be contained by mere desire. Though Indiana wants me I know my future is elsewhere, Crucifying Gods and suffering under the heat lamps and intense ternary.

Did I eat a peach the wrong way, or walk down the road humming your favorite tune? Do shades of Italy cover portions of my face? Can I sit here and drink this entire bottle of chocolate liquor? How can I wash the scent of a thousand-year-old books from my skin?

I'm sure another person will worship your sculpted features. You'll bury all unforgiven smiles, and I'll lose my haze. I unpack my heart with Queen Anne's lace and step lightly around the bugs. My questions keep coming while you beg me to stop talking.

Dare I be the one who asks all the questions and shoo away a honeybee? Do I make you quiver at all? Do you suffer or make others suffer in your place? Do shades of Italy still cover portions of my face?

I live on a diet of phosphorous matches and olive leaves. Though no longer the occasional mulberry, they gave me a tummy ache. You'll say, "I want to live where it's gray!" And I'll have to remind you of your tantrums over snow when you only want a sunny day.

How can I debate gray with visions of red clay and olive branches? Should I eat the Damn peach? Dare I dream about European trains and clear waters? How can I wash the scent off of a thousand impure thoughts, after confession fails?

Dare I hide portions of my face from Italy? Shall I choke down a few more olive leaves and match sticks?

You tell me: "I read somewhere that phosphorous matches will kill you, and olive leaves are inedible."

Jada B.