The Olive Trees And The Gun Poem by Maria Pilar Conn

It was a sea of olive trees that place in which you left me
sweat pooling under my breasts.
The bread was hot, dripping dark olive oil over my nails as
I drank the wine of communion. My sins accompany me still.
They told me to bare my feet.The ground scorched them.
I descended the waving hills stepping on rotten olives.
There were no animals here to share my pain
only a sky bearing down on me. Sunlit rocks breaking my skin.
Sweat running into my eyes,
I use the dusty hem of my skirt to wipe them,
though nothing can stop the flood
as I remember that my arms are empty.
As I try to stench the blood,
my mother's hands, my father's gun.