Damp

by Emily Smith

​

She smelled like green olives fresh from a tree

where the breeze was still brined with sea salt.

sigils mark the edges of the pavement; tacit code

for her eyes only.

 

How many layers of green can inhabit one tree?

olives, leaves, moss, mold, bruises, fresh growth:

no sharp edges, only commingling color blending to

form her eyes only.

 

Ocean smells of grit and seaweed; teeth an irritation

against the slick muscle of the tongue;

nasty pearls I want to dislodge

slide down into her tummy. Nestle against her pit.

a seed. Salted and roasted in the sun and sand.

forge her lives lonely.