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.