Oranges from Seville

Oranges from Seville, thick skinned and cloud-dense pithed. They speak of marigolds or a candle flame – the one between us that night perhaps – our bodies leant towards each other, hands resting on cool, grey marble.

I quarter the fruit, tearing out its bitter flesh, separate the lozenge pips, and begin to slice, falling into the rhythm of repetition. Soon there is bubbling, magma in the pan, a liquid turning to bright copper, or deep amber, like the earrings you gave me. Did they tremble that night, as I pushed my hand across the table?

Toast – crisp and thick, steaming inside with harvest and yeast. Butter melts, and I spoon marmalade, sticky and glistening. Trapped within it, Spanish sun, Jamaican cane, and the memory of so many morning-afters – a blue and white willow-pattern plate, a red gingham tablecloth…

how loudly the sparrows sang in the ivy.Marmalade

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