Young Love

By Annmarie Lockhart

She spoke his name, Jake,

Like she was reading a verdict.

Grad school study guide in her hand,

Beach fiction in his.

“Jake, sit down,” as she punched

Her gym bag under the chair.

Jake slunk down where she’d told him

And docilely opened his book.

“Jake, wipe your hands” as she poured

Sanitizer into her palm.

No reaction. “Jake,” she hissed,

Widening her eyes, inclining her head.

“Jake, you want your sandwich now.”

She might have made it a question,

Instead of condemnation,

Before handing him lunch on a napkin.

Bite after placid bite, Jake ate.

Bite after rabid bite, she ate.

Silence between chews and swallows.

Open-space gazes past each other and into …

“Jake, give me your garbage.”

He complied. She cleaned up.

Jake and his keeper (I don’t know her name,

For Jake never spoke it).