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The Missouri Review 27.1 (2004) 98



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Black Olives

I take my father for an interview with Jesus, who has rented
temporary headquarters in a cave. My father is not very mobile,
so I have to carry him in pieces, one piece at a time over the dusty
heat of the stones. Jesus is there, sitting cross-legged on a rug,
eating black olives.
My father laboriously reassembles himself in the silence. Suddenly
Jesus is next to him, placing an olive on his lips. The olive glints
wetly in the cave light. Then I remember: olives are one of the
foods my father hates. I look away, hoping he does not say
something to insult Our Lord.
When I look back it's just me and Dad. I manipulate his arms and
legs, turn his creaky head 360 degrees. And, hell: he seems no better
than before. But then I lift my father and he is light, light enough to
carry in one piece, and the evening air has cooled the stones, and the
scent of myrrh trails down from a gigantic moon.
Jeffrey Skinner's other recent prose poems have appeared or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Iowa Review, Boulevard and Slate Magazine. His latest play, Make Someone Happy, was a finalist in the Eugene O'Neill Theatre Conference.


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