The Last Olive on Earth by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I dreamt I was in a kitchen

where the forks were too small

to impale an olive. How I 

struggled with that olive that

I picked up with my fingers

and ate it up like if it was

the last olive on earth.

The kitchen was small as well.

I could barely make it through 

the door despite my short 

stature. I had to duck my head

and come in sideways with my

belly needing to be tucked in.

The table and chairs were tiny.

The kitchen had the most

flavorful smells of cinnamon,

ginger, and garlic. There was

no sign of food anywhere but

those smells permeated through 

out the room. I ate the olive, which 

was the last olive on earth.

Luis was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Beatnik Cowboy, Dope Fiend Daily, Unlikely Stories, and Zygote In My Coffee.