A poem by Jess Semaan

The Olives Won’t be Picked

This season

This war

I mean this war’s season

I mean this season’s war

The olives

Won’t be picked

And the earth

Won’t rest

And the oil

Won’t hit the shelf

Of the Arab grocery store

And I will search for Nablus’ oil on the shelf

I will ask 3amo if it’s coming

And 3amo will mutter

Not this season

Not this war

3amo won’t tell me Bilal woke up at sunrise to pick the olives

He won’t tell me Bilal was watching over the olives since he was six

His eyes knowing their shades of green, their ripeness, their oil concentration

His big farmer hands knowing when they were ready and when they needed another day

He won’t tell me what was the settler wearing that morning besides his AK-47

He won’t know how loud Bilal’s son scream was

He won’t know if Bilal dreamed the night before

Did he remember his dream

Or who his wife called to pick up his body

The olives are still not picked not pressed not packaged not shipped not transported not stored not priced not sold not tasted not mixed not cured

Should Bilal have come another day?

Could the olives have waited?

Could the harvest have been delayed?

Could the settlers have stayed in Brooklyn?

Will the trees remember

Bilal.