zayt zaytun
how does yellow come from black?
ground finely till texture melts,
flowing smoothly from the spout...
she washed the skin of the olives,
blessed by thieving nimble hands.
she pulled the pearl from its stomach,
perfect for the bottom of harira.
the thick liquid drowns her bread
kneaded thoroughly by her mother’s hands.
and we ate till sick, gulping bites,
till nothing remained of starchy rolls
or liquid gold.
how does yellow come from black?
as the hunger pangs overtook her,
she looked under each soiled plate
and pile of orange peels and onion skins
but no more olives remained.
so bundled in weathered cloth,
layered on the wealth of generations,
trekked to the grove just over the horizon,
only to find the trees all barren
the grass a sickly shade of gray
with branches snapped clean off
no buds, no leaves, no rich bark.
she came back each day
searching for the green and the black
till her hands wrinkled
like the skin of ripe olives.
but, this tree does not grow olives anymore,
all that remains
are the last few drops in my bottle.