Eleanor Ross Taylor (2010)
The fork lived with the knife
and found it hard—for years
took nicks and scratches,
not to mention cuts.
She who took tedium by the ears:
nonforthcoming pickles,
defiant stretched out lettuce,
sauce-gooed particles.
He who came down whack,
his conversation, even, edged.
Lying beside him in the drawer
she formed a crazy patina,
the seasons stacked—
melons succeeded by cured pork.
He dulled; he was a dull knife,
while she, after all, a fork.
2 comments:
from Poetrymagazine (May 2010)
Its really a very interesting poem. I have saved your poem in my diary. Thanks for sharing it with us.
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