I have no fork or spoon to eat you with,
Just my heart and my hands
To hold you,
And call you mine
For as long as this meal lasts.
But I’ve starved myself of this food
For so long that my body forgets the
Ritual, the ediquette
And the holy words that come before the first course.
I just like the way you smell;
Like cigarettes and the ashes from the dining table
That burnt along with the home we built so many years ago.
Praying hands won’t teach me how to use mine–
I have lousy ediquette:
Elbows on the table
Talking with food in my mouth,
I wonder what would happen if the knife slips and I cut you
Too deep, so deep
That you can’t be mended?
I’m not good with delicate moments
Or delicate things
You see, champagne glasses shatter in my hands.
Perhaps this game isn’t right for me
So for your sake,
I’ll lay a napkin in my lap
To catch the crumbs
That fall when you crumble.
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