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Slick, ovalescent, stone
fruit, slung between leaves,
poised on the branch–waiting,
for warm hands
to pluck. Born of the Olea
europaea. Defenses high;
first you must break her open.
Crack each olive, one by one–
soak them in water and let
the oleuropein lixiviate
out. The bitterness seeps.
Later, she will be cold-
pressed for her oil. Imagine,
loving her as you do, cultivating
her growth. Hands grazing her
bark. Inhaling the oxygen
that she has produced. Remember
the hands that came before you,
your mother, grandfather, great-
grandmother, and further still.
This tree has been known. This tree
knows more of the wind, and the water
and the history than you. Watch, do not
turn away. As the bulldozers come
to uproot this tree. This family. These people.
Copyright 2024 Jessica Bagwell
Jessica Bagwell is a third-year MFA student at Texas State University.

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Love how you posted two on trees. I’m an olive eater from way back (lotuses too, but that’s a different story), and love the allusion to Gram Parsons in Joshua Tree.
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Yeah. Two deserts, two trees, two stories.
M.
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I love how and where this goes. Troubling and important. Beautifully written.
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That’s the only word for this poem: heartbreak 💔
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Lixiviate! Wonderful–and such heartbreak.
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Yes, such heartbreak.
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