FALL 2011

Laura Hirschfield


He drinks his martinis dry
with a shot of vermouth
in a wine glass packed
with ice. He spears
three olives
with a toothpick and pokes
the pick into the ice
crunching, stirring, splashing.
He asks if I want a sip.
I want the olives, I say
and he gives me all three,
the most generous man I know,
even now, after all the men
I’ve known. Some nights I swallow
the olives whole, eyes closed.
Some nights I suck the red
pimientos first, bring
a hollowed olive
to my eye,
view my father
through the soft green lens.
He looks small
sipping his drink. 





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