Prose


photo by Lauren Mancke

 

Produce Isle

When I scuttle after spilled lemons, he laughs. Leaning against his mom, his black curls cover his mirthful eyes and matte finished cheeks.

I smile, feel the heart inside me.

Cramps rise. Dark liquid runs down my thighs.

Another month.

I stand still as he leaves eyeing a separated lemon.

by Tara Isabel Zambrano