It’s true, the tree has the scent of the sea,
but the silver leaves, their slender fingers,
the thick, infinitely twined trunk, some riddle
in the roots that lets it drink from the stones,
even the place where a limb has broken or
been lopped off, the shoot that springs back
to life, stumps that burn for hour upon hour,
a scattered discard twig you press to your lips,
and the fruit that hangs from young branches
and old, a green reddening to black, this fruit
ripened on enough bloodshed and hardened
human behavior to make you think it will turn
away in disgust, year after suffering year
from Said Not Said