Brine He grew up in the valley. Sometimes, nodding off On fentanyl on Hyde, He’ll be surprised By the memory of orchards, Times his mother drove them To a tree-lined road Near Woodland or Winters. For an hour they picked all the olives They could reach. In the time it took them To brine, he’d forget about them. Then, one day, she’d bring out the jar, Saying something about patience. If only he could find his way back To that road, to those trees He knew must still be there, Making olives no one picked, Then all that was bitter in him Might be turned Like a key.
Brine
Brine
Brine
Brine He grew up in the valley. Sometimes, nodding off On fentanyl on Hyde, He’ll be surprised By the memory of orchards, Times his mother drove them To a tree-lined road Near Woodland or Winters. For an hour they picked all the olives They could reach. In the time it took them To brine, he’d forget about them. Then, one day, she’d bring out the jar, Saying something about patience. If only he could find his way back To that road, to those trees He knew must still be there, Making olives no one picked, Then all that was bitter in him Might be turned Like a key.