Olives

I hate the taste of olives.
But suddenly I caught their taste in my mouth,
as if I’d eaten one and its briny flavor was
still lingering on my tongue and back teeth.

It makes me wonder
if maybe my body knows that despite
my abhorrence, my dislike for every part of their
flavor, that it needs some kind of nutrient
from those swollen green horrors.

Or else,
my thoughts have been lingering on you again for too long,
and half way around the world you’re having a
nighttime snack. Maybe you’re in your mother’s kitchen,
an open jar of kalamatas on the table.

You pop a couple in your mouth,
quietly enjoying that sudden burst of flavor while you
smile at a joke she cracks as she limps — bright
box-dye red hair, the slack blue cataract eyes,
the constant hip pain and bright patterned dress —
into the room.