forks

I suppose I’ve found a bit of love,
but I’ve also had my share of waking
mornings to find the silverware miraculously
flown up out of its neatly closed drawer,
piking the cupboards like javelins into a clean lawn.
I’ve spent my share of days
unlodging errant cutlery and still others nostalgic,
eyes catching on the gouges.

You, fork and knife, your
prongs and serration
forged and sharpened
for the tearing of gristle and sure-handed
slicing of flesh, from you I would have
expected this. But, spoon?
your comforting slopes carrying mashes
of grief, outmeals and applesauce,
all these years to my still, slackened mouth,
you seemed more innocent.