by Kathryn Aldridge Morris
Imagine we’re back in las Alpujarras, the limes, the avocados, that lemon tree we made love beneath, the tomatoes tasting of watermelons, the watermelons tasting of apricots, everything tasting of something else, and how we raced back from the café to make love again and when we lay back we heard the woodlice ticking through the oak door, the house was buzzing with our lovemaking and then we washed the blue and yellow ceramic cups we swilled Tempranillo from at lunch, the view stretching south across the Andalusian plains – can you, do you ever picture it? – and we knew that somewhere just out of sight, at the end of our outstretched arms, was the sea –
not these lemons that smell of nothing, thick leather-skinned like a man who’s spent too long in the sun, thrown now into a wire basket besides vacuum packed vegetables. They once grew on vines under a Mediterranean sky: we didn’t know the flavor had been sucked out on the long flight here.
Kathryn Aldridge-Morris has words forthcoming or in ‘And if that Mockingbird Don’t Sing’ (Alternating Current Press, 2022), Sledgehammer Lit, Gastropoda, Ellipsis Zine, Janus Literary, Lunate, The Phare and elsewhere, and she was recently shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award. Tweets @kazbarwrites