Poetry

“Olive” – H.M. Scheppers

It seems to me like the forest will look more like this:

barren

an olive, on a toothpick

one side x, one side o

— O

how my brain feels

hollow, punctured.

With just a word,

he punctures me

an olive on a toothpick

flesh purses into an “O”

and I’m pitted

on my back—“X”

begs—hit me here,

my strong side,

but I lie mangled

among other pitted O’s 

like a bug on its back and rolling

into others, without limbs

to move freely, without,

only to roll, 

empty, blind

mouth open

O

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