And I will always wonder why
the table is set in such a particular way
with the knife facing in, back to the spoon,
as if the spoon was caught dipping
into another bowl of soup¬—
a simple tomato. But the knife is upset
because there is no grilled cheese to slice
in half and share, dipping into the red
of the bowl, mirroring the red of the sun
dipping into the blue of the ocean.
But I am alone, like the fork on the left.
The wide divide of the white plate—
yet untouched by crumbs of slightly burned
bread and the dots of red—
dribbled tomato soup. A meal where the fork remains
sterile and able to be placed in the drawer.
But because it is out, the fork will be washed,
and rinsed, and dried before being tossed
to the darkness of the cutlery drawers.
Even with the other forks, it will never
see the other utensils. And while the others remain
content to just be with other forks,
I am aware of the isolation—
the knife and spoon, while in partitions of their own,
will be together on the table.
Across the wide divide of the white plate,
the fork will remain alone—
save the brief slice of the knife between its tines—
a vicious and violent violation before, again, being alone.
The knife, still angry, will turn its back on the spoon.
But they remain together—
in misery and misunderstanding.
For how could a knife ever talk to a spoon?