My old garden was guarded
by the silver-scaled armor
of two olive trees, that lobbed
globed black grenades all over the floor
which my baby stuffed in his mouth
black grease bursting on my fingers
as I forced them out.
No flowers grew by those gnarled roots
poisoned by the trees' bitter solitude.
The man who planted that garden
gathered the olives carefully in jars
mixing some with garlic
some with the bright red peppers
he grew in pickle jars on the sill.
The first year I diligently gathered
them in a pillowcase.
washed them in the rain,
and watched white mold bloom.
In my new garden,
I dreamt of figs, open-palmed
and generous. The fruit,
purpling and swelling
till they burst with milk,
and the sweet scent of green.
But my neighbor warns their roots dig deep
overturn the floor.
They need to be planted far away, he says.
No where near a home.
So now I look at vines,
how they curl their fingers around every support
gripping for dear life
how they climb and climb
covering every scar
in riotous green and clusters
redeeming the ruin.
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