Almonds in Olive

in the caverns of my intimate and far distant relatives there comes a time when the rug needs a gentle cleaning the air smells of burnt almonds cooking in the best Andalusian olive oil the arches that hold the Roman spirit create a spine of my emerging memory the tiles that compare to the ocean breeze, a turquoise that renders Moorish conquering sails summoning moon crescent victories the colonial marks are no longer branded by whips and chains but by citrus smells and burnt olive wood my soul hangs free escaping the iron forjas that light the corners and break the darkness the southern cross elevates all psychological litter that finds a stubborn hold on me the walls ablaze with ancient plumage and in close proximity, the billowing smoke from the sacred copal transpires through the walls I sit quietly and perch above the mosaics — they mirror me in my multiple complexion, intertwining the fragments of my scattered soul my eyes see a gentle cleaning and my ears rest to a siesta that cradles the jarring noise to sleep