By Christine Reilly
the knife decides that enough is enough.
he wants the spoon. he wants her real bad.
he watches her
scoop that lime half this afternoon,
the one he slices first, so thick with salacities
stupidly paring into the plum-thick bulk
of the finger, such a wanton mess
and the spoon does nothing, nothing
but serve the mouth the pulp of the lime
the perfect o-shaped clutch of nourished little moon.
and if that didn’t kill him enough
the spoon has the audacity, the nerve
to serve the afterthirst of the mouth
with a teaspoon full of water, just a taste,
as though that bitch-spoon
was grand as a champagne boat.
but enough of that. the knife asks his buddy,
the hungerpot, to boil the hidden cannabis
discreetly placed in the sugarbowl and bake out the kitchen,
blazing away and seeping
into the pores of all the cutlery.
the parchment paper and tin help him woo the spoon
by giving birth to some cookies,
rising high in the oven, smelling so sweetly.
so, the spoon and the knife get high together
and laugh and eat and watch youtube videos and laugh.
they exchange coy glances. they rip off
the other’s sheen. they go
chop chop chop on the kitchen sink.
damn baby, the way you make me rise is enough
to make me think i’ve turned into a fork, notes the knife.
when all is cut and done,
a milkish-mushroomy sheen coats the knife.
he closes his eyes. when he wakes the spoon is gone.