By Kathryn Aldridge-Morris
The terraza’s closed to stop a Castilian corriente sweeping through the flat, smashing doors and breaking glass.
My lover’s mother doesn’t turn from the hob.
She rips a bulb from a garland of garlic, digs into the flesh, splits it into cloves. ‘Qué?’
From a sack, a squirming sound: shell against shell, squeaking legs, antennae, mandibles. She extracts a blue-green crayfish, its body writhes in her hand.
‘Amelia, I’m pregnant.’
She plunges the animal into boiling water; it hisses on impact, shell flares into red.
Much later I’ll ask if that noise is a scream, or just air.
“I write as a way to find flow, get a buzz, uncover meaning.” – the writer