LUNCHTIME ON FREE SCHOOL MEALS

The day I learnt free school meals
meant meals not made by your mother,
I sat with Melissa, our navy legs pushed 
together. I had claimed my paper bag
from the counter. Melissa’s lunchbox
was a pastel family of Care Bears, 
content under an umbrella. It clicked 
open. Mine, the colour of dead leaves,
rustling too loud under my hands. 
She took out a rectangular container, 
the insides blushed like an out-of-place
sundae. I asked, what are those?! In a pace 
that made her pull them close, teasing
the lid. It’s ice-cream-scooped watermelon, 
a single sphere approaching her mouth, 
my mum made them. As she chewed, 
an image pivoted between us. The metal
scoop, warmed by a hand. A long blade,
sharp. Held with love. The Mother, 
smiling. The Mother, placing sweet circles 
of love inside a box. I shoved my hand 
into the dark, pulled a pale sandwich 
to the surface. I hate cheese and marmite!
I said. It was all I could say.

by Fae Wolfe