Green awnings have rusted.
Time unstill     you are unstill
walking on a street stilled.

 

Your mind holds the no longer market.
You want to show me the market.
You have crawled prison floors.

 

Your son has done the same.
You are the same     the ceaselessness.
Your mother served green olives after you

 

were released but what is release?
You see barbed wire.
Are cut by it in sleep.

 

Ghosts slide from slits.
Soldiers in green uniforms walk
about the city     patrol it before

 

eating green olives at home.
They ask for your papers.
There is danger in their asking     in their

 

surrounding     their makeshift grove     in being yourself.
At home     you offer me the center leaves
of lettuce     a different green     tender green.

 

In the past     we rested
among saddled horses.     Buildings
were faint     sand saturated air.

 

We will not leave     will not enter sea     sink.
Seaweed as sea groves     the sea
will not hold this green.

 

This poem was first published in Issue 21: Masked/Unmasked. Buy the whole issue here.