at a table near the back corner
full of big windows and light
Lyric sitting across from me
a tray with a slice of pizza, milk, and an apple
set in front of her
her long braids pinned halfway back
in a high pony
a dark smear of purple
making her lips gleam
like rare jewels in the sun.
Damn, she looks good,
my brain says.
And is it just me—or are people, like
staring at us? At me?
Hi, I manage.
Adjusting in my seat and
pulling out my bento box
full of Mama Alice’s
leftover pesto pasta with chicken.
As I open it, a Post-it
falls to the ground.
Before I can snatch it up
Lyric grabs it and reads:
I carry you in my heart. Love, Mama A.
That’s private, I say, snatching it from her
my internal temperature
heating to the point of molten lava.
Even at my big age of seventeen
Mama Alice insists on packing my lunch
and often includes
