Perception Spring 2023

cherry tongue
Melina Iavarone
I was never allowed to order the cherry flavor: something about a
tongue stained red put mother off, so I grew accustomed to lemon
and mango and other much-too-mature things for a 7-year old’s
sugary palette. I remember racing my cousins up to the Italian ice
truck growing up, signing my name on the back in pink Sharpie and
getting chills up my sunburnt spine from the sound it would make
against dusty metal. A little better, I remember trying to find a patch
of shadowed blacktop to stand on while waiting in line—the hot sun
burnt the road and blistered my bare feet. I would clench onto mom’s
cash so hard I was convinced George Washington’s face would be
tattooed on my palm. The air was warm but the wind was fast and
I never trusted it with my money, even as a child. Artificial lemon ice
left my taste buds sour and my chin sticky with residue. I can hear
my cherry-hating mother in the background telling me to catch a
wave and let the saltwater wash it off. Running to the shore, I can feel
the movement of sandcrabs in between my toes, so I hopscotch the
rest of my way to the wet sand and avoid their wiggles. Too ticklish.
Off-putting, like a cherry-red tongue.
94 | Perception
Untitled
Bailee Roberts | Digital
Spring 2023 | 95